


The Search for Divinity

by AsunderWolf



Series: About Feathers and Claws [2]
Category: Divinity: Original Sin (Video Games), Divinity: Original Sin 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Erotica, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Other, Recreational Drug Use, References to Drugs, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-08-24 05:34:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 90,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16633922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsunderWolf/pseuds/AsunderWolf
Summary: Source brings power but also burden. The truths behind the Veil and the Voidwoken are discovered slowly, while the History of Rivellon acquires a new meaning. This is the story of a group of sourcerers that seeking freedom, find the need to take over Divinity for Rivellon's sake. However, things are never simple and easy.[Fill based fic focused on Ifan and Sandor, with slight canon variations, starting from the beginning of Divinity Original Sin 2—but not repeating scenes of the game unless they have been changed—and ending in the last part of the game. It will continue with a second plot beyond the end of the game. So, this fic will follow canon until the end of DOS2 and after that point on, I'll follow my own loreless madness.][This story is the prequel of “About Feathers and Claws II – The Divine Doom”]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings and slight canon variations:
> 
>   * This fic follows the usual Timeline until the moment when DOS2 happens. All the games related to years after DOS2 are considered the "future of DOS2" but in another timeline. Therefore, this story will not follow _Divinity II Ego Draconis_ , but will take elements from it [it won't be spoilers and won't affect the reading if you never played it. You can have a better idea of those elements by checking the [Serie Notes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138285/chapters/47530477)].
>   * Beast and Red Prince are left behind [you are warned].
>   * _Vampiric Source_ is more dramatic than it is in-game. [You are reading a story written by a Vampire The Masquerade fan. This _*HAS*_ to be more dramatic, clearly, hehe]
>   * Because most of Divinity players are also Dragon Age players, I won't go into inventing elven words for this fic, so I will keep using most of Dragon Age elven language vocabulary that we all know.
>   * _Dhaleram_ is a word of my own crafting, in contradiction with what I've just said in the previous point. I just made it up. It means something like “weak honour”.
>   * In game, classes are not relevant. However, they are in this fic. The main power of a class will be related to the first spells available at level 1. For example, Wayfarer is focused on poison and arrows, with some earth spells. Enchanters use water and air spells only. Wizards use most elements with the exception of Earth [I changed this for some reasons explained in the fic].
>   * Descriptions in this first part of the fic are shorter than my usual style, because every reader played the game. There is only a brief description of the scene for the reader to locate it in the game plot.
>   * Mentions of situations of child abuse and torture, and descriptions of different kind of violence. Nothing farther than the game itself.
>   * Lore Reminder that _years_ in Divinity lore are marked with these two abbreviations:
> 

>   *     * AR: _Anno Rivellonis_. The ancient way of identifying specific years.
> 
>     * AD: _Anno Deorum_. How we count years now, in honour of the Seven Gods.
> 
> 

>   * [This fic was based on Ifan Headcanons.](https://lairofsentinel.tumblr.com/post/177529566996)
> 

>   * Remember that most characters and unusual "lore-like"concepts can be checked in the [Glossary of this serie.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138285/chapters/47530477)
> 


 

“ _Down to Gehenna or up to the Throne,_  
He travels the fastest who travels alone.”  
-Rudyard Kipling 

 

* * *

 

Sandor could barely contain it any longer. He walked some steps, painfully, and stopped. He looked at his hands. They itched, but the natural source sparks could not find a way out of his body. It was like burning from the inside.

“Let's take a break, we can't do anything more. Let's fish something and eat. Tomorrow will be another day.”, Lohse said after a long day walking around the isle to find a way to escape.

They sat in the beach, around a small campfire that Ifan made with some dry branches, and waited for Sebille and Beast to catch some fish. The hours passed by quickly while The Red Prince kept talking endlessly about his abilities and his yet to claim empire. Nobody paid him much attention, the hunger was pinching their stomachs. Specially Sandor's, or maybe it was a mixture of his barely contained desperation, raising his inner pressure over the seconds. Sandor groaned.

“So, what have you been doing before getting collared?” Lohse asked Sandor. She wanted a subtle way out from the Red Prince narration.

“I was... a scholar”. Sandor tried to answer normally, but words stuck in his throat. The collar was hot, the pressure in his back intensified. He swallowed. 

Ifan wrinkled his nose but said nothing, the fire had most of his attention, or so he pretended.

“What happens with you?” Lohse said, approaching him, “You are sweating too much”.

It was in that moment when Ifan and Sebille looked at him. Sandor seemed to be feverish, his eyes unfocused, a slight tremble in his hands.

“I'm okay... I need....” he could not finish his words. Cracks of source erupted from his body like green lightning, striking the ground, and a green fumes emanated from his eyes. Afraid, he stood up, and ran away, but he only could reach a couple of meters away. He fell on his kneels and screamed in pain. His collar was red, almost melting and barely containing his own source. Source burning him from the inside, unable to go out, but also burning his neck, as a result of the limitations of the collar itself. 

“What the hell is that... Source while collared?” Lohse said, waiting an answer from Ifan, who simply shrugged. 

“Stay away from me...” Sandor's hands tried to get rid of the collar, but got burnt. He needed to remove it, or he was going to implode. 

The situation, seen from the watchtowers of the fortress was unclear, but it was enough to catch the Magister's attention who walked in alarm. The lightnings of green source emanated from a sourcerer were unmistakable, no matter the distance.

If this dramatic show was going to continue, it was going to be a matter of seconds before the group would end up surrounded by afraid, and therefore, violent Magisters, too eager to “cure” them right there. Ifan did not want to risk a massacre, so he grabbed Sandor by his wrist and dragged him far away from the watchtower sight-line. They hid behind some bushes that were tall and broad, safe from worrisome looks of Magisters, at least for some seconds.

Ifan surveyed the situation, frowning at the man in pain, unable to understand what was happening. In the ship he had fixed Sandor's collar, it was impossible to be suffocation. Of course it was not, he had seen those damned violent tendrils of source. “I need you to tell me what's happening with you. Now”.

“Source.” Sandor panted, eyes fixed on the ground, static, body burning violently while feeling the cut off of source due to the collar yet the reaction of his own uncontrollable source making its way against the restriction. “Too much source. I can't stop it. My... My body...”

Ifan frowned. He never heard of such thing, but he did not waste time thinking on it. He grabbed Sandor's nape with a hand and touched the sand with the other, focusing his energy as if he were full of source to use his own body as a discharge mean. He groaned when he felt how the vivacious intensity of his own source was cut off suddenly by his collar, breaking its flux and spreading an uncomfortable sensation in his soul. Still yet, he kept focusing. He was a Source user, no matter where that source came from. If the power was not from his inside, he could still manipulate it from the outside, right there from where the collar held his own power. He could guide it to the exterior. And so he did, channelling all that wild power in Sandor's body to the ground. It was massive amount of power and hideously contained by the collar. It was painful for both of them. After a moment, a sudden burn combined with an electric green arc connected Sandor's collar with the ground. The sand spread violently with the impact and glowed green for a few seconds afterwards. Ifan groaned.

From some distance, Sebille and Lohse looked at the situation as shocked as Ifan, who still could not believe he had managed to do what he did. Smell of burnt flesh reached his nostrils and made him wrinkle his nose. His palms were scorched, not seriously but enough to know that, for a couple of weeks, he was going to feel pain by just grabbing his crossbow. He looked down at Sandor, now collapsed against him. His neck was steamy.

“We need to go” Sebille said as they looked at a group of Magisters approaching them with weapons in hands. 

Ignoring the ulcers that were starting to form on his palms, Ifan shoved Sandor's body on his shoulders and ran with the women toward the small forest close to a Braccus Rex monument. With some agility and a bit of luck, they lost the Magisters easily.

Sebille and Lohse slowed down and gave Ifan a signal to go ahead. They were going to get Magisters' attention for a while, enough to make them forget that they saw a blast of source.

After some minutes of walk, Ifan sneaked into a small cave at the cliff with a wonderful view to the sea. He sighed in relief when he put Sandor on the ground and finally could take a breath. He looked at his hands, raw skin, with more ulcers as time passed by. He went down the cliff to clean his hands in the sea water and returned with a piece of fabric and a bucket. He tried to clean Sandor's throat, as roasted as his own hands, but the damned collar was doing everything more complicated. Those were going to be nasty scars.

Sandor awoke due to the pain in his neck, moving his hands in the air, pushing away whatever that was making feel so painful.

“Easy. Easy. Let me clean those. If they get infested, that's a goodbye.”

Focusing his eyes, Sandor sat and rubbed his face, tired. He let Ifan continue to clean his neck while his eyes fell slowly until he passed out again, resting his forehead on Ifan's shoulder. Ifan rolled his eyes.

“Scholars, tougher than a wet cookie.” He murmured to himself, as a wry smile curved his lips.

When he finished the precarious treatment, he sat besides the man, and waited for him to awake. He even had time to prepare a small fire, trusting that Lohse and Sebille would join them later with the fish that needed to be cooked. He even bet that Beast and that red lizard would join them later.

The smell of aromatic branches in the fire brought Sandor back from his sleep. He groaned as his painful body lifted from the ground to sit. Confused, Sandor looked around, calming his fear when he saw Ifan with a friendly smirk.

“What a way to get Magisters' attention”. Ifan said. “I guess I don't need to ask you how you get collared”. 

Sandor touched his collar. The whole metal was wrapped with small pieces of soaked fabric.

“We don't have an alchemy kit to give you a proper treatment. Sea water has to do it. Keep the clothes until your skin is healed completely.”

Sandor sighed. “Thank you... thank you so much...” he whispered.

Ifan snorted. “Try not to do it often. Burnt human flesh is hard to take off my clothes”. He winked at him.

Sandor looked down. “Thank you. Nobody would've risk to... do that.”

Ifan shrugs. “Don't mention it. When you survive a war, your idea of danger shifts a bit.”

Sandor smiled, ashamed. His eyes reached Ifan's hands, that were wrapped in fabric as well. “Your hands...”

In that moment, Sebille and Lohse appeared, followed by Beast. They greeted them as if nothing had happened. They also brought a bucket full of fishes and bottles of beer from Griff. Without delay, Lohse skewered several fishes and put them close to the fire. In no time the delicious smell of cooked fish surround them. Nobody said much about what had happened until everyone had a fish in his hands, eating around the fire.

“But seriously... what happened with you?” Lohse said after a mouthful. 

Sandor chewed his fish slowly, delaying the answer. Understanding the meaning of such behaviour, Sebille raised an eyebrow and snorted softly. Everyone had set their eyes on him.

“What happened with the kid?” asked Beast who had missed the event. 

Lohse spoke with half of her fish in her mouth, “You should have seen it. He blasted source”

Beast opened his eyes, looking straight to Sandor's collar, now wrapped in soaked fabric, and frowned in confusion. “What?”

“It's... nothing...” Sandor said. His shoulders bended over and all his body shrunk a little bit. 

With her eyes locked in the lame figure of Sandor, Sebille licked the stick of her fish, digging for answers in his body language. Fear and shame. “Your source is.... unstable”.

Ifan raised his eyebrows and looked at Sandor. In fact, everyone looked at him with shocked expressions..

Source instability was unusual. Kids unable to control their powers were easy target for Magisters. Most of them tended to die due to their own powers, or that was how Magisters used to explain the sudden death of sourcerer children. The lucky ones, if they could be called so, ended in Fort Joy, controlled and guided by the Order. It was impossible to hide unstable kids out there. To meet one that turned into an adult, a mature one more precisely, was an unprecedented event. It was not only a matter of devastating power out of control; unstable kids had an unavoidable stigma upon them: the madness. Centuries had passed since Source was cleansed, but still yet the popular imaginary kept the rumour alive: unstable source was the first step into corrupted source and therefore, madness.

Everyone had followed the same train of thoughts, and the danger was clear for everyone. Sandor was a ticking bomb.

“It's nothing...” Sandor whispered. 

Ruthless, Sebille spoke while looking at her nails, licking some fingers that had still rests of fish. “My, what do you think we are? Peasants?. We know what comes with unstable source. And if it was unable to be restrained despite the collar, it had to be quite advanced.” she said the last words looking straight into Sandor's eyes.

“No... it's not like that...” Sandor shook his head slowly.

Everyone looked at each other. They could not trust this situation for long.

Ifan observed the man for a second, and then, the dark horizon meeting the calm sea. He had lived long enough to have been witness of a few of those degradations. One day a sourcerer starts to lose control of his powers, and in the following weeks the raw pleasure coming from the source ends taking over their minds. It starts as mundane hunger, but develops into insatiable famine. They need more and more power, while the source burns their minds. At the end of the process, only a crazy person is left, consumed in source desires, without memories or emotions. It was true that such picture was not usual, the poor bastards could not do much with their life because the Magisters.

During all his life he only had seen two sourcerers turn into that monstrosity, one of them due to demon possession. But rumours?. Oh, yeah. He had heard too many of those to consider the event a mere myth. Well, now he was stuck with one of those. The sentiment was not reassuring, indeed. He moved his shoulders and head, cracking sounds echoing through his body. Blasted waxing moon, indeed.

“How long have you been dealing with this instability?” Sebille asked, worry transparent in her face, not exactly for Sandor's sake. 

“Always.” Sebille raised an eyebrows “All my life. I was this way since I developed source. To avoid harming others, I used to have some devices that made it stable, but when Magisters caught me... they removed them, and now... now I can't control it at all...”

“Always?” Lohse blinked several times. “You were always blasting around source and Magister never saw you?”

“No, I wasn't. It seems that my body collects source, and after some days, it needs to release it. These devices kept collecting my source instead, so there was no need to discharge. But now...” Sandor hid his face in his hands, letting a sight out. 

Everyone shared worrisome looks to each other. None of them had ever heard about “source collecting devices”. Of course they were not scholars on Source, but they did not know it was possible to do so. Tacitly, all of them agreed that the man was simply lying, trying to save his life. No one could blame him, after all, everyone was struggling to keep alive.

Lohse clapped her hands. “Ok. Ok... I think we need to take some precaution measures.” Sandor pressed his own legs against his chest, and looked at her with fear. “Every time you are feeling soon to explode, tell us so we can manage to do.... something, or run away or let Ifan do what he did today?”  
Ifan raised an eyebrow, “Next time, your turn” He said showing Lohse his bandaged palms. Ashamed, Sandor simply remained in silence, looking down at the fire.

The group, with the exception of Sandor, shared some beer, and after a long hour of silly anecdotes and wild desires to be free of the damned isle, all of them returned to their tents, close to the camp installed around the Fortress. They had one day more ahead to think how to escape that hell.

However, Ifan remained in silence beside the fire, looking at it while fidgeting his collars. The night breeze chilled their skins, and the partial moon over the sea illuminated the calm weaves. He was enjoying the view in that cliff.

From time to time he looked at Sandor, who had hidden his face with his own kneels, hugging his bended legs. Probably he was questioning the sense of his existence.

Ifan rubbed his eyes with his wrists and surveyed the sea, reminding to himself that he had a contract to perform, and there was no time to sympathize with a grown man that never lived outside a fancy academy. He smiled bitterly. He wagered that he was feeling pity for a noble asshole that missed his servants because now he was incapable of doing anything.

“I'm... sorry.”

Brought into reality by those soft words, Ifan turned over and looked at the man. He was still in that position, but instead hiding his face behind his kneels, his chin was resting on them. 

Ifan cocked an eyebrow and followed Sandor's look, which was once again fixated on his bandaged hands. “Forget it. I had it worse”.

“Still.” Finally Sandor moved, getting closer to Ifan. His shoulders were bended, and his face low. All his body language was screaming guilt. Sat beside Ifan, Sandor took the hands and tried to channel some source to heal them, but he only chocked painfully. The source was completely denied. 

Ifan laughed softly and patted his shoulder. “There. Keep your source low. I'm okay. Enjoy the view”. he extended his arm showing the sea, and as soon as Sandor looked at it, he reached one of the last bottles of beer that were left by the group. “I enjoy simple things in life. A good drink, a good view.” he saw the bottle through the light of the fire and wrinkled his nose “Something tells me this is far, far away from a good drink but... it'll do it”. He opened it and poured it on two mugs.

“For Fort Fucking Joy” he said, cheering. 

Sandor looked at him, then his own mug; the liquid inside was watered and its taste probably was going to be horrible, but he took the mug anyway and toasted with Ifan. “For its d amned name.” he sipped and then chocked. It tasted of Void.

Ifan snorted, “Ridiculous name. Those guys wearing red skirts probably think it is a good one” he kept looking at the horizon. "So, tell me. Where were you when they collared you?".

"Probably you won't know it. It's a forgotten island" Sandor took another sip and wrinkled his nose. It was better to leave that cursed drink alone.

"Try me"

"Balurik Isle"

"Ah, yeah. I know it. Beautiful beaches too. I had a contract there once"

"And you?. Where had you been when they got you?"

"Driftwood"

"Had you a contract there too?"

"I always have a contract going on."

"Oh."

They remained silent for a while.

“You know, I like to think in Ifs sometimes” Ifan said without averting his eyes on the horizon. “Not all the time, but... It helps to keep things focused.” Sandor looked at Ifan's profile. His left cheek had a long scar almost reaching his lips. The man seemed to be a dangerous thug but his voice, rich in soft tones, inspired everything but fear. His grey hairs made him look around fifty years old, but his eyes had an energetic glint, deep within, that put in doubt his estimation. The way Ifan moved his body at ease and grabbed his crossbow suggested a military past. Sandor blinked when Ifan looked at him, calm and gentle, drinking his beer “If we weren't stuck in here, what'd you be doing with your time?”

Sandor's lips curved in a shy smile and looked down. Ifan elbowed his ribs. “Ah, I know that look, rascal. Nasty thoughts...”

Sandor laughed shaking his head. “No, it's not like that. Since we got trapped here, I found myself wondering about an old man I knew...”

Ifan observed him with curious expectation, waiting more details. “Family?”

“Not exactly. But he raised me... and it's been a while since I last heard about him... I wonder how he is doing. I wish I could be drinking a tea with him.”

Silent, Ifan swallowed a bit of beer. “Family is not always a matter of blood.” A sad smile was drawn in Ifan's lips.

"I know. But it's a bit more complicated than that."

Squinting his eyes, Ifan cocked an eyebrow. "A lover?"

"No!. By the seven, no!" Sandor frowned.

Ifan laughed loudly. That was too much of a reaction. "I get it. I get it. Old men are not your taste". Sandor's face was still a mixture of repulsion and irritation. "Don't blame me. Ninety percent of times someone says  _it's complicated_ , sheets are involved." 

Instead of relief, the comment hardened Sandor's face and made him feel a dreadful chill across all his body. He looked down to avoid any eye contact and kept silence for a moment.

"Back to my original question..." Ifan drank a bit more."what'd you be doing by now, if we weren't trapped here?"

“If I have to choose to be in a better place, maybe the most reasonable one would be farming in a small plot of land. Far away from any city. Maybe in the forest.”

“Ah, that's a surprise... I would have bet you were going to say something about books and cities. Scholars always say that” Sandor squeezed his legs. Ifan chuckled, patting Sandor's back a couple of times. “Nevermind. Rhalic aflame, this brew is burning me badly.” He laughed in a good mood after hitting his chest with his fist twice. 

“And for you?” Sandor said. 

“Ah, same as I was doing before all this mess: working with the Lone Wolves. I miss them.”

“You like kil-... your work?” Sandor hesitated.

A small sigh. “It's a job. It pays. It's enough.”

“No moral issues?”

Ifan drank the rest of his beer in a row, rested his weight on his elbows, stretching his legs close the fire. He looked at Sandor with flinty eyes. Something had changed, and a darkness loomed around him. “I stick to my own”

“And that is…?”

“Getting rid of smart-panties who think themselves too high and judge everyone around them”

Sandor looked at him, his eyes open wide, colour leaving his face. The man was looking at him intensely, his pupil were small, like a wolf's ready to jump on his prey. Sandor moved his lips, trembling.

Suddenly, Ifan cracked into a full and throaty laugher that relaxed the moment. For a second, Sandor's blood had frozen under that assassin look and felt, first-hand, the deep terror such man could inspire in his enemies. Yeah, that voice and eyes could change so radically.

Still laughing, Ifan wiped out a tear from his amused eyes, “You have to see your face.”

Sandor sighed. “Funny”.

“A lot.” He stopped after a while. “But really, like I told you on the ship, I don't kill easily. I need a good reason. _Really_ good reason.”

Sandor squeezed his legs a bit more, partially due to the chill breeze of the night, “How many contracts did you fulfil?”

Ifan remained silent for a moment, looking upwards sometimes while counting with his fingers. “Forty-three. Give or take.”

A chill crossed Sandor's back. Silence for another moment.“Did those contracts not give you enough money for retirement?”

“Nah. I'm not doing this for money, lad. It's more like... purpose. It's good to have a contract to keep going when you are not sure what else could.”

“Oh...” Sandor looked at the fire. “So, you don't care about the paying in the end...” he frowned. 

Ifan sighed standing on his feet. “A bit of everything.” He stretched his body and walked past Sandor. “Heading to sleep. See your around”.

Sandor squeezed a bit more his legs, feeling the chill deepen in his bones as the fire was diminishing. He hid his face in his kneels, and let his mind wander through the senselessness. His life had always been so quiet and boring, so secure inside the academy. Now, living isolated in a fortified isle, with people he barely knew, too focused on their own businesses, was... strangely hitting home. The presence of Magisters that collared him had been a terrific event, the symbol of how hell starts, and yet, despite the fears and terrors, despite the fact that such event was meant to be a radical change in his life, it ended in the same dull result.

He moved his face just a little, enough to look at the sea over the border of his kneels. An odd sentiment was rooting in his chest, sad and bitter. He needed things that he had never had. He longed for things that he never knew and would never know. For sure, he missed the safety of his previous life, but with the exception of the threats surrounding the mysterious cure of the source, everything else was more or less the same than back then. The loneliness, the disconnection, the sadness. He wanted change. Desperately. But he also knew how much tragedy and pain change may bring. It was so hard to decide what he truly wanted.

Life was that, a dark horizon where a darker sky joined with a dark sea moving in boring patterns. Maybe sometimes a storm could add some spice to that darkened view, but nothing truly changed. And when it did, it was an enormous monster attacking ships on that dark sea.

He sighed in frustration and hid his face behind his kneels once again. The fire extinguished, and only a chill breeze caressed his back.

 

* * *

After several weeks of random tasks and favours, they finally escaped from Fort Joy before the cure of source could be assigned to any of them. Hidden in the Amadia's Sanctuary, they were set free of their collars and could rest more comfortably at night. Or at least, as much as the truth, now deep in their minds, allowed them: the secret they had uncovered minutes before leaving the fortress had shaken everyone: the Silent Monks and all those creatures alike that followed the higher ranks of Magisters, were monstrosities born from the  _cure_ of source. A process that harmed a sourcerer's mind and soul, leaving a barely recognisable shell that followed orders. The concept only acquired another level of horror when Gareth explained to them what a Shrieker truly was, and how they had to find a way to kill the ones preventing them to leave the Isle. The escap e of the Magister surveillance system turned out to be a minor joy in comparison to the new hideous truths they had learnt.

 

That night they were around the fire, Fane included, waiting for Ifan and Beast to come back with the rewards of a promising hunt. In the meantime, Lohse and Fane shared knowledge of humans, or more like Lohse kept making jokes about human physiology that Fane, instead of questioning it, was meticulously documenting in his journal. When she confessed the mockery, everyone exploded in laughs while Fane simply grunted with indignation. After that, Lohse narrated some stories of wonders that she used to sing when she was part of a travelling company, and her voice had not been taken hostage yet. To add some atmosphere, she was accompanied by the Red Lizard's skill on lute.

Far away from the main group, Sandor was sitting on a fallen tree trunk, observing them. Since the source blast everyone had been slightly distant to him, or at least that was what he perceived. Maybe it was the other way around. In any case, even though the topic of his source instability had been buried under a mantle of silence, he could not deny the fear that was in everyone's eyes when the Amadia Sanctuary's blacksmith cut his collar. Thankfully, no blast or sign of out-of-control Source was shown at that moment. But deep inside, Sandor knew it was just a matter of time. Without his shackles in ankles and wrists, he was a danger.

Everyone in the camp stood up cheerfully when Beast and Ifan appeared with several sticks on their shoulders, from which different types of animals hung: rabbits, birds, reptiles. They prepared the meal and shared the food with jokes and smiles. Surprised by the distance that Sandor had put himself into, Ifan took two small sticks with big pieces of meat skewed and walked to him, giving Sandor one of them. Without asking permission, Ifan sat by Sandor's side and started to tear carefully small parts of his meal with his bare teeth. To Sandor's surprise, it was not a savage image. On the contrary, the mercenary had a particular elegance that separated him from any barbarian concept he could have imagined. Maybe it was that cautious demeanour that Ifan always had, a predator that never indulges himself into careless behaviours, because it is never known when an attack may happen.

After a moment of silent eating, Ifan looked at Sandor's untouched piece, and raised an eyebrow. “Expecting cutlery?, this is the wild, my friend.”

A bit ashamed of being caught staring at Ifan while, yes, unconsciously he was waiting as well for some plate and a knife to appear from nowhere, Sandor looked for a dagger in his backpack and struggled with his piece. With the tip of his fingers he tried to affix the meat to the stick, avoiding as much as possible to get them dirty with grease, so he could sink the dagger into the cooked meat and cut it into smaller pieces to easily eat. The process was extremely complicated, specially taking into account the temperature of the meal.

Chewing curiously, Ifan simply observed the elaborated procedure of the wizard, a bit amused and at the same time, in complete disbelief. Not even the damned red lizard, with all his pretentious nobility was so picky.

Of course after a long complicated manoeuvrer on the meal, Sandor misplaced too much pressure, and his dagger cut his finger while the whole piece of meat fell on the ground.

Ifan choked in laugh. That had been the most ridiculous show he had seen in a while. “I can't believe this.... have you ever eaten using your hands?”

Sandor sighed without saying anything. No. He could not remember the last time he ever tried to do so. He was disgusted with the oily texture in his fingers, specially knowing that he was touching something he had intentions to eat without even cleaning his hands beforehand. And to make it worse, without proper cutlery. But he said nothing, the only thing he was going to accomplish was a massive laugh of everyone while a disgusting repulsion curled in his guts as some memories of his dirty hands in the past assaulted him. He closed his eyes tight, nauseas hitting his stomach.

“Scholars” Ifan said laughing, grabbing another stick of meat and offering it to Sandor. “They may be good at lore and all that, but outside a library... well. Don't expect much.” Ifan grinned. 

Sandor tried to refuse the new piece, but Ifan's insistence convinced him. This time he was more careful not to waste food and ate it enduring the disgraceful oily texture on his hands.

“I've heard you, Ifan” Fane said in the distance, “And I have to tell you that I'm more capable of things that all of you together.”

Smiling, Ifan rolled his eyes and joined the big group, laughing with Lohse and Sebille while some anecdotes about failed attempts of eating food cheered the dinner.

 

Hours later, with full bellies and content spirits for a not so chilly night, the group returned to their tends to take a well deserved rest. The only person remaining was Sandor who took advantage of the loneliness and sat closer to the fire. He could not restrain some trembling. His robes were too thin even for a night like that. Out of nowhere, a blanket fell on his shoulders, and startled, he looked aside.

“Easy, easy. Feeling cold after eating is really bad for digestion” Ifan said. He was wearing an outfit that had recovered before leaving the fortress. It was the clothes he was wearing when he was collared. A thick leather coat with wolf fur around it. If Ifan had a menacing look with ragged clothes and a collar in middle of the beach at midday, being in front of him right there infused terror.

He walked past Sandor and took his crossbow. He sat in front of the fire, with the eerie Shadow's eyes at a side, and several potions and fabrics to give a proper maintenance to his new weapon.

“You have been silent during dinner” through the crossbow's sight, Ifan aimed at the darkness. 

“There was nothing to talk about.”

Lowering the weapon, Ifan looked at him for a moment. “Well, it's true. Nothing interesting for you, maybe. We talked about best taverns in Rivellon” Ifan snorted, soaking a piece of fabric with a glowing lotion and rubbed the crossbow's sight, “not scholar material, I reckon.”

Sandor hugged his own legs pressing them against his chest, while wrapping himself in the blanket. He let his cheek rest on one of his kneels, staring at Ifan. He was doing it again. He could not decide if that thug was going to kill him at the very moment he would trust in him, or he was truly caring for him, out of pity. Either way, it was disgusting.

Noticing his gaze, Ifan stopped his movements, and met Sandor's eyes straightforwardly as he raised an eyebrow. Without words, Sandor averted his eyes and focussed on the fire, submissive. Ifan's green eyes were made of raw power and command.

Ifan frowned, a bit confused with such behaviour. He was not even trying to be intimidating. He rolled his eyes, forgetting the matter while resuming his work on his weapon. From time to time he glanced at Sandor, who had completely retreated his attitude and was staring at the fire.

Once finished, Ifan put the weapon aside and looked at Sandor once again. This time in a truly intimidating and intense way, testing if the man could feel his stare. And he did. After a moment, Sandor glanced at him, while a sudden nervousness tensed all his body. Ifan snorted. That was cute, but he had no intentions to terrorize the fragile man. In fact, he wanted to cheer him up instead of turning into his personal nightmare.

“A coin for your thoughts?” He said in his hoarse, calm voice. 

Sandor sighed. His eyes jumped from Ifan to the fire several times.

“Why are you so nervous?” Ifan squinting at him. The joke had passed, and he could truly see how tormented the man was. Was his own presence the reason of it? Damn. 

“I... I'm...”

“Please, speak your mind...” Ifan looked at the fire this time, trying a less inquisitive approach in order to calm him down.

“You hate scholars, right?” 

Surprised by the words, Ifan blinked, curious. Then, he snorted. “Ah.  _That._ It was a joke... no hard feelings”. He had just remembered all the mockery he shared with the red lizard and Fane during the dinner. Well, maybe  _share with_ was not the best way to put it. It was more like at the expense of them, both of them scholars. 

“You are always remarking about scholars' uselessness. About their skills, well... about their un-skills.”

“That's a word that probably doesn't even exist. Don't you feel your tongue burning?” Ifan laughed at his own joke softly, but Sandor did not even smile. 

Both remained silent looking at the fire.

From time to time, Sandor's eyes jumped to Ifan. That man was strange, he could not guess which was Ifan's true face, the mercenary one or this one, relaxed and smiling while making silly jokes. He remembered that, early in the morning, he had spotted Ifan at Amadia's statue, touching her stone cheek with a furious gesture hardening his face. Out of the blue, the pool water turned red, and surprised by the consequence of his own action, Ifan left the fountain surreptitiously, like the fine assassin he was, leaving no trace of his presence in the crime scene. Of course, he did not count on Sandor spying on him from the highest point of the camp. Hours later, Gratiania found the pool of blood and cried in pain for long minutes. Rage had contaminated the only water source that the camp had. Now they had to walk some kilometres away to the nearest river for their water supply, or simply resign themselves to the astringent flavour that magic used to leave in cleansed water. Just another trouble more in their troublesome life.

After that event, Sandor could not take out from his mind the idea that Ifan was dangerous. He was not a wolf in a sheep disguise. No. He had never presented himself as such. But there was something darker than a mere wolf. Something savage and visceral, maybe villain even, hidden under that calm demeanour. His permanent annoyance against scholars made Sandor conclude that, maybe, the Lone Wolf found in him a threat that could see under his layers and uncover his façade. It was a logical explanation.

“What did they do to you?” Sandor whispered. 

Surprised, Ifan blinked, taken aback from the trance that fire had gotten him for a while. “What?”

“You hate scholars.”

Ifan snorted. It seemed the man was still fixated on that matter. “I don't. They are just... funny. You can make a lot of jokes about them.”

“There is more in there. I know...”

Ifan grinned, pointed teeth slightly highlighted in red by the reflection of the fire. “ _You know_ . Of course  _you know_ . Scholars  _know_ everything.”

Sandor frowned averting his look. “I... I saw you. You turned the pool into blood tears.”

Ifan's smile disappeared and took a coin from his pocket, playing with it in his hand. “Ah, that. Well, next time I promise to clean my boots before walking in.”

Sandor raised an eyebrow. Not the expected answer, but dangerous indeed. “I saw you when you did it. You were... praying”

He snorted. “For the Divine, no. I've stopped praying decades ago.”

“Then... what were you doing?”

“I... something got my attention, it made me touch the statue. And I felt something. Something weeping. It wanted me to weep, but... no use in doing that.”

Sandor looked at him, mistrustful, feeling the darkness growing inside Ifan. “So you answered with anger... I see.  _Born in blood, my child. Do not let me cry in hollow hearts. Loneliness fills into a broken soul._ ”

Ifan blinked in surprise. Those words had been the ones he had listened from the statue. “What?”

“Amadia's texts. She is the mother that can protect you, embrace you with tenderness. She can also be a scowling mother, angry, hurt. You awoke her raging side.”

Ifan rolled his eyes. “Goddess, a pile of stones...”

“You must be furious about something. The books of Her Rage, quite rare to be know by common folks, explain-”

“You know.” Ifan interrupted Sandor's words. His tone was still the same, calm and warm, but his eyes were blunt, even cold. “This is why scholars piss me off. This.” He said moving his arms at Sandor. “No matter the situation, they always have the perfect explanation for everything. Well... if they have it, why the hell they don't stop tragedies to happen? Everyone knows the future once it's the past. Not much use by then. Oh, but eh... fancy quotations here and there”.

Sandor looked at the fire, frowning.  _Tragedy_ ?. “Is this about the reason you left the Order?”

Ifan grunted. “I've been in the Order. Full of scholars saying how to fight, who the enemy was, when to plan, what kind of weapon to use. None of them moved their asses from their fancy academies. It turns out that...they did not calculate well the effects of their own suggestions. Nobody was sharp enough to know that bombing a whole forest with Deathfog could be dangerous.  _Nobody._ Where was all that expertise they have? all that gifted planing skills, that  _common folks_ don't have?” Ifan stood up, calm and controlled as usual, but his eyes were brighting in fury. He approached one of the crates close to the fire where a discharged purge wand rested. He took and shook it in the air, looking at Sandor with raging eyes yet calm voice. “Look at this. The finest knowledge. To consume a soul. To destroy a monstrosity that could be you, me, whoever. A monstrosity made by more scholars. Silent Monks: the big  _cure_ for all of us, delivered by scholars.” He closed his eyes for a moment, breathed in deeply, and opened them again. This time his rage was washed out. Yet, his tone kept unchangeable “Should I continue my list?”

Sandor looked down. “They are Magisters...”

“Magisters educated in your academies. Or following scholars from your fancy academies” Ifan put the purging wand on the crate again, and walked to Sandor, assertive but not aggressive. “Following the suggestions of a big group of noble bastards that never fought for their food, that never saw a war, that never had their loved ones dead on their arms. Bastards thinking that a Silent Monk is... _fascinating._ ”

Ifan's tone changed from contained fury into bitter sadness. He sighed and shook his head, cooling down. “I think I need to sleep.” he said finally, and walked past Sandor not without taking his crossbow.

Sandor kept looking at the fire in silence.

 

* * *

It was night, the dark moon was on the sky, barely illuminating the Sanctuary, and a calm sound of nocturnal birds echoed in the silence. Only the torches and campfires kept the darkness at bay. Dinner had passed silently, immersed in introspection.

Looking for new purging wands, the group had explored the deepest zones of Hollow Marshes, meeting a violent group of Voidlings. The fight was long and sustained, finishing with everyone covered in dark ichor and laughing at Sandor's lack of experience in battle, who fell on the ground more times than his spells hit the creatures of the Void. The comical moment was interrupted when everyone heard strange voices calling for them. Following the mysterious words along sinusoidal paths into the forest, they ended in front of an old monument that put them into a trance, awakening hours later as representatives of their Gods. The news had been shocking for everyone. So gravely shocking that Sandor could not manage the new intensity of his Source ability. Unable to contain it, now that his Source was mixed with Rhalic's, he knelt on the ground, dug his fingers in the mud, and blasted several times with raw source all around. His companions barely could cover behind some rocks and trees, that ended scorched at the impact. The event had just resurfaced the unspoken yet grave detail about their fellow's nature. Once again the suspicion of madness lay upon Sandor despite no one said a word about it. Too much had happened in such short time. That was the reason why after a silent dinner around the campfire, everyone went straight into their tends, in order to sleep or maybe to fight their deepest fears in the realm of dreams.

But not everyone went straight to sleep.

At the highest point in Amadia's Sanctuary, a not so pronounced cliff faced the sea. It was Sandor's favourite spot in the camp. He remained there, standing on his feet close to the border of the cliff, resting part of his tired body on his staff, looking at the calm waves of the sea while memories of the visions in the Hall of Echoes filled his mind. 

The dark idea that this new state was a result of being possessed was becoming stronger over time. He never had been a good follower of the Seven, at least not with such enthusiasm that he could find this situation cheerful. Times desperate like these were the best ones for demons to trick mortals. And knowing Lohse's background made him wondered if the demon inside her could have something to do with all these apparent illusions.

He closed his eyes and heard that presence inside him. He frowned. It was impatient, a bit hungry. He opened his eyes in a snap. The presence inside him had just repelled his own consciousness, asking for some privacy.  _Privacy_ in his own body. 

He sighed, squeezing the staff in his hand. Now, life in the academy looked like a far away dream, something that had happened to another person, not to him. Those safer times, so content in his simple life, without danger and pain, without fear to lose control, without strange shadows inside his own consciousness, were completely gone. Now, out of nowhere, a so-long-absent God appeared in his life, and took shelter in his own soul giving him a terrible task. The quest for Divinity had colossal proportions, and in the end, he was not sure if he was suitable for it. That God must have made a mistake. What could a mediocre scholar like him do with so much power like Divinity?. Rhalic had to be wrong.

To think over the consequences, the future, and everything that was at stake, produced a storm of anxiety and fear in his chest. He just wanted to run away to a safer place. But where was it?.

He startled when a hand touched his shoulder. He hopped a little, realising how close of the cliff border he was. Forcing some balance, his robe got stuck among his legs and fell on the ground, his staff rolled away. The immediate rough and throaty laugh calmed him down.

“That was exactly what happened earlier, but you don't have now the excuse of the Voidwoken ichor to justify your slip.” Ifan extended his hand in aid. “You really need some training in the field, lad. I can offer you some advices if you want to. It's a matter of life. Yours.”

Sandor sighed in defeat, accepting that hand that with too few effort lifted him in a clean movement. “Thank you. Probably I should.” Sandor took his staff and looked at the ground.

“I have some drinks. Want to share them at the campfire?. It's not pretty cold, but you could use some warmth.” Sandor remained in silence and nodded still looking down. “Are you okay?” Ifan's voice changed, and turned softer, expressing crystal clear a hint of worry. It was just natural after the scene of Source he had displayed in the evening. 

Without the collar or the shackles, he could feel the Source gathering second after second in every fibre of his body, uncontrollably. The blasts were going to become more and more frequent. He was not sure how much patience he could expected from his companions, or if his body could handle such vast amounts of source disrupting his life on a daily basis. Another worry to the long list of troubles. Focused on his thoughts, he barely noticed when Ifan stepped forwards and placed his face in front of him, eye to eye. Sandor looked up only when he felt Ifan's calm breath close to his lips. Too close. Startled, Sandor drew back, blinking and confused. Ifan just laughed slowly, drawing a half smile on his face. Ifan could not deny he found amusing to play with him.

“Let's drink a bit. I see you need it.” He walked past and patted Sandor's shoulder. 

 

They sat by the fire, and with a soft gesture, Ifan offered him a mug of wine. Sandor smelled it. It seemed to be better than the horrible beer they had drank back in Fort Joy, but clearly not the finest wine he could taste in Balurik Isles. He sipped and sighed in silence.

Patient, Ifan remained by his side, drinking and looking at the fire.

“You know how to cast spells, but... have you ever been in a battle? Or a mere fight?” Ifan broke the silence, looking at him. His eyes had a warm bright due to the light of fire. 

Sandor squeezed the mug in his hands. “I think you already know the answer considering my performance this evening.”

Ifan snorted. “I don't know. You could be... rusty?”

This times Sandor laughed softly. “You are too kind to even consider such possibility”.

“Ah. I'm known for my soft heart”. 

Sandor placed the mug at a side and extended his hands to the campfire. Without focus or effort, he made the flame burst into an enormous blaze, to fall into a small one, close to ignited wood. It changed into blue and green, and at some point, purple lightings arose among the flames. It was clear that mastery of spells was not something he lacked.

Ifan understood it. Expertise was not the problem, it was the combination of magic and adrenaline. To think in surviving, while fighting and casting spells was something the wizard never had to do in his life. All about theory and complex magical experiments in a boring academy were easy to control, clearly. Fighting against the Void creatures while dreadfulness made his theoretical concepts slip away from his memory and made his hands tremble in panic, was another thing entirely. Yes, Ifan could understand that. He had been there once. Long, long time ago.

“Tomorrow we are going to train.”

Sandor closed his hands, and the majestic colours and vivid movement of the flame returned to its natural, boring rhythm. He looked at Ifan. “Thank you...”

“Thank me when we can see some progress in you, until then... we are only going to talk about how hilarious was your slip into ichor among dead Voidlings”

Sandor smiled, looking down. “Will you never forget it, right?”

“You need to impress me in battle for that, lad.”

Sandor's smile remained for a moment until the thought came back. The problem of his Source. “I'm.... um.... Do you know something... to protect yourself? From Source?”

“What?” Ifan frowned. “Ah, that... Are you feeling like you are going to do _that_... more often?”

Sandor looked at him, bashful, and then at the fire. “This... Godwoken thing is not helping.”

“Ah.”

Ifan left his mug of wine by his side and reached Sandor. Knelt at his front, he placed his scarred hands at the sides of Sandor's neck, and closed his eyes for a moment. His arms glowed in green, bolts of source cracking in the air. Ifan grunted, something had hurt him. Leaving a hand on Sandor's neck, he touched the ground, and the arch of source, wild and raw, went straight into the deep soil.

Ifan was gifted with the ability to sense and control the ground, a difficult skill to have among the most renowned scholars. Unlike air, water or fire, rocks and stones were stubborn, they required more energy than the other flexible elements to command at one's will. It usually required decades of focused study and heavy training, and still yet, the oldest scholars were never good enough to produce an earthquake. However, it came naturally in Ifan.

The ground shook a bit around them as the Source went into it, and then, a breath of relief escaped from Ifan's lips. He opened his gentle green eyes, and smiled at Sandor tiredly. “Well, there you go. For a couple of days I think you are going to do well.”

Ifan squinted at Sandor's neck, checking if this monumental amount of source had left some marks as it had happened the last time. There was nothing to worry about, there were only few old scars from the damn collar. He touched them, feeling their hardened texture. They were not going to fade, but thankfully no new mark had been added. Flesh to flesh was safe, it seemed. Ifan stood up and rotated his neck and shoulders, hollow sounds cracked.

“Where did you learn to do it?” Sandor asked, exhausted for being Source-depleted, but more confident of his temporal stability. 

“Nowhere.” Sandor raised his eyebrows, “that day in the beach when you were hurting... I just imagined that it had to be similar to the source flux I have with Afrit. It simply... worked.” Ifan shrugged. “Thanks The … Divine... well... um.”

Sandor snorted. “Are you always living that way?”

Ifan sat again, close to Sandor, and poured more wine in his mug. “What do you mean?”

“In the edge”

He shrugged again. “I'm living on borrowed time anyway.” Sandor looked at him intrigued, but Ifan shook his head slowly. “Long story. For another time, maybe.”

Sandor drank a bit more, and both remained in silence. He blinked, as if he remembered something out of the blue, and looked at Ifan's hands. Curious, the mercenary tilted his head, and only when Sandor extended his palms up, asking for his, he gave them to him. Gently, Sandor inspected both hands, healing the small ulcers and burns that had appeared. Guilty, Sandor returned to his mug afterwards, bended shoulders and eyes fixed on the fire. The friendly pat that Ifan gave him on his shoulder did not cheered him up.

“Is there something that scare you?” Sandor asked as a natural consequence of witnessing a man that could handle his unstable source without second thoughts.

Ifan sneezed. “What a question. Of course there are. Height, darkness... hell, spiders” he wrinkled his nose, rubbing its tip to sneeze once more, “But there are not many options than simply going ahead. If you feel the bump in your guts, well, that's a good sign that you are still alive.”

Sandor smiled. That sounded so inspiring.

“Um... “ Ifan said, catching Sandor's attention while rubbing his palms against his own thighs in a subtle way. “How are you doing with all this Godwoken thing?”

Sandor sighed deeply. “I don't know. I can't stop thinking this is a demon possession”

Ifan nodded in silence. “Strange gods telling us to be things we don't believe. Are we all in Lohse's boat now?. If so, we are screwed. Do you know anything about de-possessing?”

“I know we need to find a necromancer for that.”

“Your wisdom shocks me. And they say scholars are useless.” Ifan drank the last drops of wine in his mug and sneezed.

Sandor looked at him faking offence. Ifan laughed.

Things were getting more complicated, but at least Sandor knew Ifan was a good companion. That darkness was still there, deep inside the mercenary, draining the colour of his eyes, but it was not so threatening as he had thought time ago. There were some layers to dig in in order to understand the man, but certainly, he was not an enemy. And probably, since Fort Joy, Ifan was the only person that truly worried about him. Slowly, like water filtering through the cracks of dry soil, his friendship was reaching his core making him a bit more alive.  _The most powerful weapon is a person with a friend to strive for._ Sandor smiled as he glanced at Ifan. 

Ifan sneezed again.

 

* * *

The next morning Ifan forced Sandor to get up early. Groaning and sleepy, Sandor used all his will to do so; a slight hangover was dizzying him. It had been a really bad quality wine.

They walked away from Amadia's Sanctuary and went deep into the Hollow Marshes. They stopped at a good place surrounded by dense trees and bushes. They had to practice without attracting unwanted attention.

Ifan took a branch from the ground and with his dagger cut it in two. He hastily carved these sticks into improvised toy weapons. He put his dagger in the back of his belt, and threw the sticks into the air, making them spin and turn in an artistic way until both fell on his palms gracefully. “I got my daggers”.

Sandor prepared himself grabbing his staff at his front. He had never trained before. So that, he never had fought in friendly terms. He only could see the shadow of a smile under Ifan's beard. The man was going to enjoy this training so much. Sandor barely could imagine the unbelievable amount of material for jokes that this encounter was going to provide to Ifan.

“Get ready. Now!.”

A jump, a quick run and Sandor had one stick on his throat and another on his ribs. “First lesson: protect your vital points.”

Sandor nodded, taking distance from Ifan. He released a deep sigh and once again he stood with his staff at his front, looking at Ifan's amused eyes.

Before Ifan could attack once again, Sandor cast an electrified cage that contracted Ifan's muscles, and made him drop his sticks. He did not give up, no Lone Wolf would do that. Agile as a wild animal, Ifan jumped towards Sandor, who in the spur of the moment summoned a barrier of ice. Or at least that was what he thought he had cast. Instead, a violent line of fire divided both of them. Sandor clicked his tongue. In the pressure for fast reaction before the unpredictable behaviour of Ifan, he had missed the words to properly cast what he wanted to. However, it did not matter. At least not now. It was a barrier anyway.

With an impish smile curving his lips, Ifan moved his arms and stomped to the ground which emanated a mist of poison around the barrier. As soon as he saw the green fog, Sandor ran away as fast as he could, but the blast wave of the explosion made him tumble, falling on the ground. Now Sandor was in extreme disadvantage. He got up quickly, but his back bumped Ifan's chest, who looming behind him, squeezed his neck with both hands softly . “Too open. I don't even need a weapon”

Sandor nodded after a deep sigh. Then, he felt it. A sudden jump in his chest, the itching feeling spread all over his nerves, a hoarse whisper in the back of his mind. Source. It was accumulating once again to an incredibly rate.

“Focus”. Ifan whispered from his back. A stick was pressing his lower back. He did not realise when the attack had started.

From behind, from his side, even from above. Ifan was showing him all his weak points, while forcing him to cast his spells efficiently to get used to the rhythm and the adrenaline of a fight. However, something else was making Sandor more and more nervous. An immense amount of source was growing in his inside, burning him, distracting him. He had to focus to cast what he had intentions, but such task was becoming impossible to perform. The more he tried to focus, the more he failed and the more source was gathering. Stress, tiredness, or adrenaline. Nothing mattered. His focus was completely directed to his inside, to watch and control the Source while pretending to do something else.

“A mistake can cost your life, or someone else's” Ifan said when he pushed Sandor's kneel in a fast sweep that made him fall on the ground. He gasped, digging his hands in the soil.

“Away... away” he whispered. 

Worried, Ifan knelt before him, looking for his face, but when he saw those blank eyeballs full of raw refulgent green source, there was no time for reaction.

A massive blast of source spread several meters away, leaving a far-reaching scorching landscape. The ground was cracked and stones were spread everywhere. The animals that were not caught by the blast, ran away in a chaotic stampede, while the unlucky ones lay on the ground, dead and steamy.

_What had he done?._

Sandor looked around, terrified. He could not see Ifan, but his body collapsed just after finishing the thought.

 

Close to Sandor, part of the ground had been fractured and shifted, leaving a deep, rocky hole. Several meters far away from it, a pile of rocks that had been pushed far away due to the blast moved slowly. Ifan emerged from the rubble. His temple was bleeding, and he could feel many dents all over his body that he bet, were going to look nasty in a couple of hours. But at least he had survived. His animal instinct had not wasted time. At the moment he saw those maddening eyes blasting Source, Ifan's own source raised a bulky wall from the ground, to shield him. The shock of sources pushed the wall and everything behind it far away, collapsing into pieces of rocks a moment later.

Now the Hollow Marshes were silent. Birds had flown away due to the episode, and every insect in the forest ran into their shelters. Ifan stood on his feet and stumbled, being caught by his wolf, immediately self-summoned from nowhere. The adrenaline of the moment had called his friend. Afrit supported Ifan's weight stoically, and helped him to walk to Sandor's collapsed body.

Ifan checked his pulse and sighed in relief. He was alive. He inspected Sandor's hands. Their palms were severely burnt. There was not much to worry about, though. Nothing that a healing spell could not fix. However, he spilled a healing potion on them. The pain in them awoke Sandor, who confused at first, lifted his torso violently at the faint memory of what had happened. With his wide open eyes, he inspected Ifan, acknowledging his state. Speechless, he looked around, putting every piece of information in its place to understand the situation. Everything was burnt.

“Um... heal your hands” Ifan said gently. 

Blinking in surprise, Sandor looked down at his palms, the pain and their look seemed to be separated things. He dismissed them and returned his attention to Ifan “Are you alright?. Did I hurt you?”

“I'm fine. Your hands.”

This time Sandor tried to cast some healing spell but it was useless, he was depleted of everything, magic and source alike. He shook his head tiredly. The potion rubbed on his palms had to do the work before gathering a bit of energy. Then, his attention returned to the surrounding area. He had destroyed that part of the forest so violently.

Sandor rubbed his eyes with the back of his burnt hands. This was a nightmare. It was not even hours ago that Ifan had helped him with his source; why had this abrupt event happened? He could only blame the damned God inside him.

Afrit, by Ifan's side, was sitting while looking intensely at Sandor.

“I need to get a collar... This is getting worse.” Sandor whispered, still looking at the scorch reaching far beyond the nearby trees.

With a hand on Sandor's shoulder, Ifan spoke with a firm tone “You have to learn how to deal with this. If it's true what you told us.”

_That_ . It was finally said. The bitterness that contracted Sandor's stomach made his mouth taste acrid. Ifan's tone was strange, full of mistrust while covered in gentleness. Sandor looked at him surprised. There were no smiles or silly gestures on him. It was the image of something kind yet severe.

“Do you think of me as a liar?”. Sandor's hurt tone twitched Ifan's guts. 

“I think that, if this is something you always had... then you must control it. As we all did.”

“It's easy for you to say, your source is stable.”

Ifan frowned. He knew damn well that instability related to Source was always a recipe for tragedy. But he wanted to believe. Rhalic be damned, he truly wanted to. “When did you get your first blast? Tell me the truth.”

Sandor face twisted imperceptibly, turning more pallid for a moment. His eyes became wetter and revulsion twitched the corner of his lips. Pulling himself together, he stood up with the help of his staff, swaying a bit in the process, and looked at him. “I was a child. For everyone's sake, I wore some devices in my ankles and wrists that kept the source in check. I didn't lie to you.” Ifan raised an eyebrow. He had never heard of such devices, he was not sure if such technology was even possible. Fort Joy, a place which had at its disposal a long list of gadgets to play with Source, had nothing alike it. How could Sandor have access to such special artefact?. “I know what they say. Trust me, I'm not losing my mind, just... Without those devices.... I don't know how to control this. But it is something that comes with me. I just need something to contain it, because my body can't. A new collar may stabilize it...”

“Or make it worse....” Ifan crossed his arms. “Your neck is a good reminder. You let something grow uncontrollably all your life instead of taking responsibility for it. It's about time.”

Sandor frowned. Was he implying this was his fault?. His... responsibility?. “... well, I'm so sorry if Magisters turned my life into a nightmare. Clearly I should have done something in that respect! What a foolish I was for not killing all those magisters before removing my restrictions.” Flashes of his peaceful life before being collared came to his mind. Lonely afternoons in the library, reading books while an emptiness grew inside him; solitude corridors where his steps echoed in a morbid pace; the dismissing look of the rest of the scholars while he drank a tea besides the kitchen's windows, always desiring to discover the world beyond that sea, but too trapped in that cyclic life.

He swallowed in silence, bitterness spreading in his mouth. There was no lost Paradise in the past. Nor a promised Eden in the future. There was nothing but this. A pointless, aimless life.

His mind returned when he noticed those green eyes casting doubts on him.

“I.. I don't know what to do with this, with this voice inside me, with this power.... with all of this!” He threw the staff against the ground. “Control!. You say I have to have control!. As if in my fucking life I have ever had it!.” He closed his eyes, remembering how many times the only option was to be quiet, steady, silent while a tempest tore his soul apart. What control Ifan was talking about. 

“It's about time, then”. Ifan insisted.

Defeated, Sandor looked down for a moment. It was about time, he said. Anger raised from his guts. He glared at Ifan, brave enough to endure his intimidating presence. Even though Ifan was far from wanting to be intimidating. In fact, the mercenary offered him his warm eyes that unavoidably softened his frown. “I'll be clear. You have no options, my friend. You control your Source now, or someone else will put you down. We live in a world where nobody likes us. Sourcerers are welcomed nowhere, especially less those who can't pretend not to be one.”

Words hit deep. Sandor rubbed his face and observed the hole that Ifan had created in the ground in order to protect himself. Remnants of Source glowed where the ground had been shifted. Ifan's source. “I've never asked for anything of this...”

Ifan rolled his eyes yet sympathized a bit. “Welcome to the club. Are you done?”

Annoyed by the lightness with what Ifan had treated his tragedy, he lowered his head, defeated, tired, teary. He was a grown man, maybe older than he looked like, but his lack of interaction with the world made him feel like a child, lost and alone. Or maybe it was another of the many consequences of deep scars carved in his soul.

“Hey, I've got your back.” Ifan approached Sandor and patted him so vigorously on the back that his weakened legs made him trip to almost fall on the ground. “By the Seven, you are unstable in more than one way” Ifan laughed dryly at Sandor's frown. 

Ignoring his gesture, Ifan looked at his loyal wolf and tilted his head toward Sandor. Calmly and gently, Afrit approached him, observing the wizard carefully while wagging his tail slowly. Then, he offered his back.

Curious, Sandor looked at Ifan.

“You can ride him. You are light as a feather anyway.” Ifan did not added more. It was more than obvious that Sandor was energy depleted and walking across the rough terrain of the forest so many kilometres was out of question. “Let's return to the camp” Ifan said, turned over his heel, and walked away.

 

“I want to believe you...” Ifan said while walking ahead his wolf, always surveying the place, wary of the environment. He was afraid that Magisters could have perceived such blast of source and sent a small group to investigate. “I'll do it now. From now on, I won't ask you anymore. Just tell me the truth. Trust me, I'll keep it in secret from the rest if you want me to. But I need to know the risks. How did you become unstable and when”.

Ifan could not look the other way any longer. That last blast had almost killed him. It was vital to know the truth. To know how much time they had before madness could strike his fellow's mind. Sometimes to know the how helped to understand the final destiny of the instability. But he had to know the truth. Now.

Sandor moved his lips, but no sound came from them. Afrit halted as well, so Ifan turned over and looked at Sandor. The man had once again that flickering green in his eyes, gathering more of that uncontrollable source in his body at ridiculously high speed when it had just been minutes ago since the last blast. Ifan looked at him gentle but worried. Yes, he pitied him. Sandor was a mere scholar, and like most of them, he was easily overwhelmed by everything. What an easy life the little man had had until now. How tough had to be, to see the world that he believed so stable, crumble apart and disappear. Oh, Ifan had been there too. He pitied his past self in that reflection too.

He approached the man, knelt before him, and cupped one hand around Sandor's neck, while the other touched the ground. The source was drained calmly this time, without arcs jumping around.

Sandor kept silent and looked at Ifan who remained knelt, staring at him, waiting for him to speak.

“I'm saying the truth. I was a child. I was afraid and hurt. And I blasted.” his lips trembled. “I'm not lying. I was seven years old. They put me some shackles in my ankles and wrists to control it.” He moved his leg in front of Ifan and lifted his robe and pant sleeve to show him the mark around his ankle that confirmed his words. He also showed him his wrists. Soft marks that were similar to the one acquired on his neck, marks that seemed to have burnt his skin as a consequence of overheat for restricting his source with a metal device around them. Ifan nodded. “They worked all my life. I had few blasts, mainly when those devices were too old and had to be replaced. But when the Magisters caught me, they removed them all. This is my first time in my life that I'm living without them. I barely know how much I can contain, and when the blasts happen. It's always so fast, that I cant.. I cant... Sometimes I feel a lot of Source coming out of nowhere. I can't perceive it beforehand. Maybe it's because Source is emotion-related, after all. And sometimes... well, most of the times, I really can't control... I don't know how to control anything.”

Once again Sandor's eyes flickered in bright green. Ifan guided that amount of source to the ground once again, this time the process was stronger than a moment ago. He left his hand on Sandor's neck, patting it gently to finally removed it.

So, if this instability was something normal, something that was not a promise of a future madness, maybe this was just the product of a sourcerer who grew up never feeling his true source in his body. A child who became an adult without learning to control his nature, a child who had always been controlled by someone else. Ifan stood on his feet, stared at the man, wanting to believe, yet confused for this want.

“Fine, I believe you.”. He placed his hand on Sandor's shoulder, squeezed it, and resumed his walk, followed by Afrit and the little man on his back. 

 

They walked to the Sanctuary's entrance, where Sandor asked Ifan to stop but not to unsummon his wolf. Tired, he sat on the ground and observed closer the shaggy yet majestic wolf. Nobody but Ifan used to be so close of the animal, but for some reason, Afrit allowed Sandor to do it.

Maybe during their walk Sandor felt the variations of source in the animal, his link with Ifan, the obvious worry in the way the wolf looked back to him to be sure of his passenger's safety. Or maybe, it was simply naivety, Ifan thought. After all, the wizard had been browsing life with so much inexperience despite his age.

“Can I?” Sandor asked Ifan, with his burnt hand in the air towards Afrit. 

“Um... I wouldn't do that if I were you...Afrit is...”

But before Ifan could finish his sentence, the wolf stepped forward into the hand, looking for the contact with closed eyes. Ifan frowned, embarrassed. There was something that he and Afrit shared through their link, silent but clearly present.

The wolf went for more than just Sandor's hand. He strode forward and rubbed his grey body against Sandor, who  hugged the animal , laughing due to the tickling of the source-fur on his nose . 

Now Ifan was fiercely blushing. The wolf's behaviour was exposing him in a way he did not want to acknowledge to himself, let alone to show it openly. The worse part was when Afrit fall on the ground, groaning in amusement with his belly up for Sandor to scratch it, and his tail wagging in happiness. What a display of a brave and savage wolf. Ifan sighed deeply. There, he found the proof of an obvious situation he had been avoiding to recognize .

Expecting from Sandor nothing less than pure ignorance of what was truly happening, Ifan cleared his throat and looked around while Sandor finished petting his wolf. “Your training today was weak. We need to work more on your coordination with spells and your physique. Maybe build some muscle”.

Sandor frowned at him while trying to keep balance as he stood up. The wolf was now pushing his body against Sandor's legs, demanding more petting while stealing some caresses as he pushed Sandor's hands with his head. “Muscle? I'm a wizard”.

“I say you need a bit, we are going to live in the wild and fight for a long time. More than once you are going to be magic depleted, and the only way to become fatigue-resistant is by training your physique... besides, you will need some strength for, you know, not tripping over your own feet. Ichor or no ichor.”.

Sandor rolled his eyes. That misfortune was going to follow him forever. “Fine. We'll do it. But next time, bring Afrit.” He looked down with a big smile at the wolf, “You are going to help me, right?”

The wolf stopped his impatience pushing, moved his ears quickly, and turned around twice, wagging his tail ridiculously fast, lifting dust everywhere. He even made a half-whimper-half-howl, a sound full of excitement.

Ifan rubbed his beard. That wolf was a complete shame. Suddenly, he remembered that the last days in Fort Misery, Sandor had been petting every dog they met. Ifan had not been surprised by the understandable preference for canine companions over humans  that Sandor displayed  , but by the strange effect that Sandor had on them. It was as if he could talk with the animals. Sandor always knew what they wanted, why were stressed, even how to ease their pain. It was a connection to the animals that Ifan had never found in another person but himself. It was a proof of loneliness accompanied by animals. 

“You really like them. I mean, dogs in particular. You've been playing with that black buddy in the beach before we escaped” Ifan finally said. 

Sandor smiled. “I love dogs. They were my company most of the time during my life in the academy. They are so honest with themselves. They don't hide their disappointment, or their hatred, or their joy..” he looked down to Afrit, as if he were waiting a nod of approval from the animal.

Maybe influenced by the joy that was coming from his wolf, Ifan could not restrain himself a silly smile and lowered his guards. “Well, wolves are like that too...” his voice had been huskier than he expected.

Sandor looked at him, curious and sharp. He even tilted his head a little bit as Ifan averted his eyes in embarrassment. For a moment, he was afraid that Sandor could understand the true meaning of Afrit easy-going behaviour.

“I would say that wolves are even better than dogs” Sandor said. Ifan looked at him, eyes bright while a soft blushing coloured his cheeks “they have no master. If they like you, they remain, if not, they go away. I like that honesty”.

Sandor smiled, looked down, and knelt to hug Afrit for a long time. A fraction of Afrit's enjoyment reached Ifan, making him blush fiercely. Then, Sandor patted Afrit's head and climbed the vine towards Amadia's Sanctuary.

 

Ifan scratched his temple, confused. What the hell had that meant. He hated scholars. He could never guess when they were sharp clever bastards, or stupid assholes that managed to perform an act so well done, that they could disguise their own stupidity under a mantle of apparent deep understanding. Ifan sighed, resigned. He looked at Afrit, feeling the echoes of the wolf's emotions, as the wolf could perceive his.

Of course the bastard knew the meaning of his savage wolf turned into a lap dog. He was a scholar, and probably quite well versed in soul-bounded companions and their link with their masters. Afrit howled friendly, moved his tail once again, and turned around in his spot three time before unsummoning himself.

Damned, embarrassing wolf.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

It had been a day since they killed Alexandar. Or so they thought. However, when they took over Dallis' ship, they found that Alexandar was more resilient than they expected. He was unconscious but far away from being dead, so they took him as a prisoner.

The battle that the Seekers fought to take control of the ship had ended in several corpses spread on the deck. Gareth and the survivors prepared the bodies of their comrades and placed them at a corner of the Lady Vengeance. They were going to give them a proper burial once they could return to Reaper's Coast. And for that, they needed to overcome a little mishap: Lady Vengeance was not going to sail and they had to seek a solution.

 

Ifan walked around inspecting the Lady Vengeance, trying to find a nook and cranny that could contain the answer to their way out of Fort Misery. The ship was surprisingly similar to the one that brought them to this place of nightmares, so he investigated the same corners that had been tricky in the previous ship. Sadly, he had not luck, so far.

He halted his steps in front of the hatch that headed to the lower-deck, where Alexandar was locked up as a prisoner. He wanted to finish his contract, and he could almost have if were not for the intervention of Sandor who had stopped him from killing that unconscious bastard in his bed. At some point, deep in his mind, he knew that had been the right thing to do. If Godwokens were now hunted down, it was always good to have the most famous one of them at handy, just in case they needed a good ace under the sleeve. Or a first-hand answer.

“My, my. You smell of anger so much that I needn't to lick you to know it.” Malady said walking slowly to Ifan's side. She glanced the hatch and crossed her arms. “Enjoying the thoughts of thousands ways that you can kill the man down there?”

Ifan did not answer immediately. He sighed deep. He was still uncomfortable with Malady around. There was a familiarity in the way she looked at him that was reassuring, almost kind. Her eyes, her pride demeanour, her beauty. All of it used to bring him old memories of better times that resurfaced each time he saw her mischevious smile. But to know the creature had a demonic side made him uncomfortable despite the similarities with _her_. He moved his head to the sides and his neck popped.

“I wanted to talk to you....” he said.

“Mhmn hum” she looked at him amused.

“This Godwoken thing... is it truly what it is?” Malady raised an eyebrow, remaining silent. “I mean. This is truly about gods and not... about demons?”

“Oh. Sharp.” She broadened her impish smile. “I wouldn't expect less from someone like you, my dear Ifan. Under all that scruffy and careless looking of yours, you are always some steps ahead.” She scratched her chin slowly, looking aside, “but worry not. You all, my dear Godwokens, have a tinny part of their beloved little gods in your own souls. Well, at least most of you. I can't speak for Lohse..."

Frowning, Ifan looked down, worried. This was the confirmation that he needed to be sure that these voices in their heads were not demons. He knew that he could trust in Malady for this. After all, she was half demon and had an immense power under her carefree attitude. The bad news that saddened him was the true nature of Lohse's inner voice. The poor woman did not deserved that fate.

“Anything else? Because otherwise I would recommend you to keep helping the others to make this ship work.”

Ifan shook his head, but when he was going to turn over his heels, he stopped. “Ah, one more thing...”

Malady looked down at him, so tall and sublime. She had the grace of the gods themselves.

“You know that Sandor has a problem with his source...” She frowned slowly, “it's um... A bit unstable”.

She opened her eyes, yellow iris brighting in surprise and disappointment “That's unfortunate. Maybe we should leave him here in Fort Joy."

“No, no!” Ifan extended his hands, open palms to her, “I've talked to him already. It seems he was born that way, he only needs training. He had some methods that worked for him when he was younger, but now... he hasn't them anymore.”

She squinted at him. “Methods?”

“Something about a device collecting his source”

“Mn. Interesting. But what do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know. Can you teach him some trick? Or give him a magical constraint that can help him to learn slowly to control it?. Last time he almost fried me in a blast.”

“A Godwoken without source is of not much use to me...”

“I'm just suggesting a progressive constraint. Because I don't see much use in a source blast while we are in middle of the sea”

She pressed the corner of her lips with a finger during a long silence. The scruffy man had a point. “Mn, I'll see what I can do.”

 

After hours of investigation, Sandor finally solved the mystery of the Lady Vengeance. Once awoken, the ship set its destiny to Reaper's Coast, but sadly, Dallis intercepted their trip. The fight was long and sustained, and they only survived thanks to Malady who opened a portal to the Realm of Dead, the Hall of Echoes. Sadly, the procedure was so energy-demanding, that she could not save everyone in the ship. The majority of the crew died, and only few Godwokens and Tarquin survived.

The first thing the survivors did when they finally put a foot in Reaper's Coast was to bury the fallen ones. Sadly, the dead bodies had been disintegrated through the portal back to Rivellon. So it was decided to perform a symbolic ritual of a burial instead.

A luxury medallion that had been found close to the Red Prince's belongings and Beast's eye-patch were buried under small crosses with the names burnt on the surface. Gareth did the same with several Seekers' objects. Sebille disappeared as soon as the ceremony started, bored and uninterested to bury a lizard that had asked her, time ago, to become his slave. Trying to give some rest to their Godwoken fellows, Lohse decided to share some words, but she realised that there was nothing to say. Nobody knew each other very well after all. She made a joke about red lizards and pirates and left the ceremony. Sandor simply placed a flower on the symbolic spot they had chosen for them, and left. Everyone did the same after some minutes of silence.

The only one who remained in the process to the very end was Fane, who without stop kept writing in his notes the details of the ritual considering it boring yet fascinating.

The Lady Vengeance had been affected by the violent travel too. Parts of her hull were damaged, and inside, the furniture was upside-down. The decks were heavily affected for the extended fight, and fixing it was going to take some time. For the moment, they needed to find a place where to sleep or they had to accept camping for a while. Even though the option of camping was appealing for Ifan, he suggested to head to Driftwood, a highly populated town with good taverns and inns. Guided by his experience, Lohse and Sandor followed him. During their way, some Magisters recognized Ben-Mezd, but thanks to Ifan's charming skills, the encounter did not end worse than losing a heavy bag full of gold as a bribe to overlook his presence. 

They headed to the Black Bull where, once again, thanks to Ifan's charming talk, they could rent a whole room with six beds at a cheap price. Of course the room offered zero privacy, but they did not complained, considering they had been travelling for a time in a ship lacking completely of it. The mere fact of having a normal, decent bed, not a bedroll over a hard ground or a permanent waving hammock, was going to be the best improvement in their life of the last weeks.

They accommodated quickly, and in a couple of days they started to work in their quest: to find Meistr Siva. By Sebille suggestion, Sandor accepted the challenge of solving the mystery related to a Magister murder, just to have some Magister's favour on his side in case they needed to pull some strings or suggest them to overlook their presence there. The case was not easy to solve, not just because Sandor lacked of evidences but because he was unable to be in a decent place where to think over. The room they rented had not the accommodations of a studio. There was always someone entering or leaving the room, bringing a constant distraction to his work. Ifan suggested him to go to the best tavern in Rivellon—according to most people in those chill nights in the Amadia's Sanctuary. Without choice, Sandor accepted the invitation. Ifan accompanied him to the place, sharing the secret words at the Dwarven guardian that granted them the entrance. Browsing the place with the familiarity of those that had spent decades in a same place, Ifan guided Sandor across the corridors to reach the most secluded rooms of the tavern.

At first Sandor did not like the room. There were no windows and the air was saturated of drudanae and different types of smokes, but the privacy that it could offer convinced him. He chose one of the far away rooms, with a door and a lock, that provided a quiet environment to think and read. Ifan had warned him that such room was expensive, mainly because it tended to be used for intimate encounters, but Sandor did not mind. He was a person who valued a little corner where to rest from the world more than money.

He used some cleaning spells to make the room safe and comfortable, wiping away its imbued scent of drudanae, and immediately put himself to work on the table. Notes, books, and evidence were quickly spread all over the space. He had finally found the perfect place to read the books stolen from the chambers of the Magisters in Fort Joy. Now, there was nothing that could distract him from his research about source, gods, demons, and Driftwood murder cases.

 

* * *

 

That evening, Ifan went to the lowest levels of the tavern, looking for Sandor. He had new information about the possible location of his pack. He walked past all the patrons smoking peacefully and reached the farthest room with door that the tavern had. He knocked three times and entered.

The wizard was just reading, giving his back to the entrance, too focused on the book to notice him. Ifan shook his head slowly, another flaw in the long list of survival-risking behaviours that the man had.

There were a diverse amount of objects and artefacts on the table. Sheets of paper, books, skulls, feathers, rings, more notes. With a smile in his lips, Ifan approached the table and sat, leaning his weight on his folded arms on the table. “I was not convinced you would like this room. You said you didn't like how it smelt it.”

Sandor straightened his back and finally look up, breaking his readind trance. “No, I still don't like it. But nothing than a bit of magic can't fix. Besides, this place fits my purpose: tranquillity.”

Ifan looked down, not sure to understand a subtlety there. “Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt” he said observing the ridiculous amount of objects spread over the table, apparently clues for the case. In the ground, a drudane's pipe was abandoned in a corner. Ifan twitched his lips. Poor pipe.

“Oh, no. It's fine. I could use a break. Something to report?” Sandor pressed his temples and rubbed his eyes. He blinked several times, feeling the burning in his eyes of hours of too-focused reading.

“Calvo, a friend of mine, a Lone Wolf, told me where my pack is. It's in the far East of Reaper's Coast.” his words were interrupted by a rumble coming from Sandor's belly. Both of them looked at each other for a moment before chortling as Sandor pressed the bridge of his nose, shaking his head slowly.

“My apologies. I've lost track of time”

“That sounded like you didn't eat in days. When was the last time you did it?” Ifan said with a big smile on his face.

Sandor looked aside, then up, resting a finger on his chin, “I can't remember... maybe lunch yesterday?”

Ifan blinked. Did that mean that the man had been there all this time?. He could not believe it. The previous night he had noticed Sandor's absence in their room, but he had assumed other—and more sensual—alternative reasons for it. Now he was curious. He wanted to know if Sandor truly had remained in that closed room all that time, alone. He was not sure why he wanted to know, or maybe he knew the exact reason but he actively decided to ignore it.

"You didn't sleep in the room". He dropped the words like someone not wanting to ask, but asking anyway. As if he were assuming already the answer yet displaying a small hint of doubt that was demanding confirmation.

Of course Ifan knew the answer. Sandor had not slept last night in their room. He remembered how Fane had been complaining about the uselessness for an undead to waste time pretending to sleep, while Lohse, trying to do so, could not rest because Fane's voice. When the Eternal had fallen silent, devouring a book of Cranley Huwbert, the main hall of the tavern became noisy with several drunken people. At the end, neither Lohse nor Ifan could rest during last night, allowing him to be completely aware of Sandor's empty bed. He had assumed the most common possibility for a grown man who had spent all his life locked up in an academy. He was a scholar after all, those noble assholes that claimed to follow a life of virtue and dedication, but they were always inclined to turn it into a mess of hedonism and debauchery at the first opportunity they had. Ifan knew Sandor was a bit more special than an average scholar, but he was not expecting miracles. Besides, Ifan could not deny certain delight in thinking such possibility because it allowed him to imagine his friend in suggestive and inappropriate situations. The thoughts were entertaining at first, but at the end of the night they had bittered his mood; if there had been a chance for resting, it was completely screwed.

But now, seeing Sandor's deep dark circles under his red eyes and his sleepy face cheered Ifan up. No, Sandor was not like those noble assholes. Sandor was special. Well, more like a kind of _weird_ special scholar. But special in the end.

A sudden warmth twitched his gut. Once again, he did not want to understand what was the meaning of all those little jumps in his inside. More often than not he reminded himself that this damned scholar, useless fighter, man unable to use his magic and his feet at the same time, extremely focused individual when it was about books and knowledge, was a waste of time. A future headache, and prude as he looked to be, useless in more departments than fighting. He had no time nor energy for that, he had a revenge to take.

Ifan looked at Sandor's slender hands on the table and a shadow of a smile appeared beneath his beard. What it was a waste of time was to deny it.

“Oh, I think I spent all night here, then. I wanted to end this as soon as possible”

Ifan blinked, breaking the spell that caught him. “Wanting to solve Magister problems? I thought we were on the other side.”

Sandor chuckled. “Tell Sebille. But she is right... never underestimate the power of information and acquired favours, no matter the side”. Sandor talked displaying an unusual confidence, almost unnatural to him. It seemed that to be surrounded by books and under control of a situation made him change his body language completely. His usually bended shoulders became straight, allowing his hands to move in delicate but assertive patterns. An amusing twinkling appeared in his brown eyes, and his lips curved in a fascinating smile. His scholar side was made of elegance and sublimity, but sadly it was always ruined by his clumsy fighting skills.

“Clever and dangerous” Ifan whispered raising his chin a bit, a sudden shiver crossed his back. Damn scholar. Sandor was getting under his skin no matter what. He sighed and stood on his feet. “well, do you want me to bring you some food? A drink? Something to relax?”.

“That would be pleasant. But bring me something that makes me stay awake. And sober” he said emphasizing his words with his index finger extended.

“Whatever my favourite Godwoken wants” Ifan saluted him, chuckled, and left the room.

After some minutes, Ifan reappeared with a pair of stew bowls, a mug of ale, and a cup of tea. He sat in front of Sandor, moving some papers and books on the table to place the things he was holding. Sandor moved his chair to the corner of the table to be closer to Ifan. The mercenary sat and drank a sip of ale while resting his head on a hand. “Does the mighty scholar allow himself a break to feed?”

Sandor chortled shaking his head, amused by the pretentious tone that Ifan was forcing in his words.“Absolutely”. He started to eat the stew. As the silence remained, and Ifan's intense look grew over time, Sandor's shoulders started to bend slightly. It was already late when Ifan realised his mistake.

“Is there something wrong?” Sandor said, uncomfortable.

Ifan blinked and looked down, a bit ashamed of his staring. That had becoming a really bad habit lately. He ate a bit of stew and smiled broadly, as he used to do when he was relaxed. “I've been thinking... During all this time you asked _me_ a lot of questions. My past, my work, my fears. I was wondering about yours.”

Sandor was going to eat the next spoon of stew, but stopped midway. His face went grave and let the spoon rest on the bowl. “Oh... it... it's a boring story. I'm a scholar. You know that. All my life shut away in a library, bickering with other scholars what's the meaning of a word written six centuries ago, competing over who is the one who knows more... life passing by every day in the same room, with the same people, doing the same things, with the same lonely sentiment.” he looked down but that aura of sublimity returned to him. Ifan could not stop staring.

“Were you lonely all that time?”

Sandor met Ifan's eyes. Those green eyes were piercing his, gently yet relentlessly .The question was not by chance. “You mean....” Both of them broke the eye contact, a bit ashamed. They remembered that interaction weeks ago, awkward and full of wonders and clumsiness. “Yes.” Sandor resumed his voice, “I was lonely in every aspect a human can be...”

Ifan drank, letting the slight red in his cheeks disappear under his beard. “I get you don't miss that life”

Shaking his head, Sandor smiled a bit impishly, just a bit. The gesture was not complete, but it was enough to make Ifan laugh who desperately tried to deny the effect that how such small detail had on his heartbeat. Sandor ate another mouthful of stew, “You must think it's a torture to live that way”.

Ifan took a moment to think. “I won't say it looks appealing to me, but I can't judge. We live the way we usually can, not the way we really want. But you... it seems that you did it. I respect the effort of living in the way one person wants”, he clapped Sandor's back, “to become a scholar is not easy task, it's not something that simply happens.”

Sandor left the spoon in the bowl again, and drank a bit of his tea, slowly, allowing the silence to deepen. “In fact, I didn't.”

Ifan tilted his head a bit, chewing his stew. “Becoming a scholar is not exactly... an accident.”

Sandor looked at Ifan, wondering if the man was being sarcastic, but his warm eyes said otherwise. “It was... um... “ he sighed, a bit ashamed.

Ifan frowned unsure about what was happening with him. “Something you don't want to talk about?”

Sandor moved his lips as if he were going to say something, but then he stopped and looked down, ashamed. “No. It's just... I was taken in by a scholar when I was a child. He taught me everything I know. He helped me to have a better future, even though he knew my.... source _little_ problem” he said, as his eyes flickered in green, few sparkles of source appeared and disappeared over his shoulders in a second. He was nervous. “Unlike what you must think of scholars, I was not born in... a noble house, so... the others in the academy were always tormenting me for that. They used to say that I was my tutor's filthy...” he stopped as sudden cracks of source spread all over his exposed skin; flat tendrils of source raised along his neck until reaching his cheeks and temples. They glowed in a rhythm that seemed his heartbeat. He closed his eyes, breathed in and out, forcing control, and then he continued “Well, they were always saying horrible things because I had no noble birth like them.”

Ifan looked at the man's hands, the tendrils of source were fading on his smooth and slender fingers. Clearly scholar's hands. This was a piece of information that surprised him. Maybe that was the reason why Ifan's common assumptions were so odd to fit the wizard. Slowly, Sandor had become into an interesting man to interact with, but this... this just excited Ifan's interest to the next level. “Nobility is overrated. Honesty? That's another matter. And you, my friend, you have a lot of that.” Ifan said gravely, finishing with a mocking tone “Even for a Scholar.”

Sandor raised an eyebrow, twisted smile in his lip “funny, Ifan...” Ifan chuckled. “Daniel used to tell me that too...”

Ifan smiled drily. “Who?” he kept drinking from his flagon.

“Daniel das Vapour. He was the scholar who took me in.”

Ifan froze in the middle of his sip. His eyes widened, affixed them in Sandor's. Slowly, he lowered his mug; his voice emerged without any trace of mirth, “Scholar from the Isle of Balurik?”

Worried, Sandor mirrored Ifan's surprise. “Yes?. That's where the academy was. We were all secluded there...”

Ifan looked aside, a hand covering his eyes, lending his weight in an elbow. His lips were parted while gathering a deep breath. His eyes surveyed all the room avoiding Sandor's look. Then, he closed his eyes tight. He moved his lips several times trying to find the words, but he could not...

“Ifan, what's wrong?”

Ifan sighed again. He drank all the remaining ale in his mug in one shot and looked at Sandor, flinty eyes yet shameful. “I know my words are meaningless, but... I'm so sorry.” He whispered the last part.

Sandor's heart pounded, “Ifan?”

“Daniel das Vapour was... one of my previous contracts.” he kept tensed, clenched jaw and hands, hardening his face to receive all the hate that was coming. He observed the progressive change in Sandor's face, from surprise to horror and then sadness and confusion. Why an amusing game turned into a nightmare?.

Sandor's voice waved. “What?”

“Lone wolf contract.”

Blinking, Sandor looked down, sad. “Who? Who did it?”

“Magisters. I don't have more information. Lone Wolf style. No questions, work done, payment.”

Sandor smiled nervously. “Magisters? Why? Daniel has... had no source... or... even magic.”

Ifan risen his eyebrows. “He had. He almost killed me. I had to trick him into exploding half of the island to get rid of him. His body was carbonized. Magisters told me he was dangerous. The hell he was. Your source blasts are nothing in comparison.”

Sandor opened wide his eyes, processing the information, “Daniel always wanted to be a sourcerer, or even a mage. But he was not. He studied wizardry, but has... had no powers. He was not a threat for any Magister.” Sandor looked down, a sad smile on his face. “I remember he was always studying my source. For some years he was fascinated by my instability...”

Ifan frowned. “Were you his experiment?”

“Yes. In a good sense. He used to measure my energy, to analyse the physical reactions of my body, and to store source in small devices that he could use later. He always could gather source, but never use it properly. It seems he had mastered that finally. That's why you thought he was a sorcerer.” He smiled, “Old man, he had always tricks in his sleeves.”

“Oh, shit... I killed someone that was not even a real target for the client...” he ran his fingers through his hair, pushing his hair back and resting his hands on his nape, while drawing back against the chair, “What a fucked up mistake I've done....” He let his arms fell by his sides, and looked down, defeated “I... I.... I can't even apology. I understand if you hate me...”

“No. I don't.” Sandor interrupted him. “Your job was that. It was always that. You told me so, soldier or Lone Wolf, it was the same.” Sandor breathed in and out again, source cracked around him. His wet eyes showed green sparks too, “I won't say Daniel was like a father. Because he never was. He just cared about our basic needs. And our source. We were well treated, but nothing more. I always wished him to be like a father to me... but he didn't want to. My unstable source was useless to study after a while, so he just put me aside.” He felt his hands burning and his breath accelerating. He stopped a bit, placing his hands on the table, palms up. A thin surface of source was sparkling. “Of course I'm grateful. I would have had.... a … terrible future if he didn't help me... but that's it.” He looked at Ifan for help. Without saying a word, Ifan touched his neck as Sandor closed his eyes. The arc of source jumped from Ifan's fingers and went straight into the ground. It had not been so dramatic as he had expected.

Some tears started to run Sandor's cheeks while a trembling smile curved his lips. “Thank you”

Ifan looked down shaking his head softly. He felt so devastated for having destroyed the only thing that man had.

Cracking voice, Sandor spoke. “Do you really want to know why Magisters went after him?” Ifan looked at him, silent. “He helped sorcerers. Children with source. Like me. He tried to offer a normal life to people like us.”

Sandor looked down, and Ifan could not do anything but standing up and hugging him. At fist he did it hesitantly, expecting rejection, but Sandor simply sank in the embrace, holding himself from that small back and crying on Ifan's chest for a man that he always wanted to feel like a father.

 

After that, Ifan disappeared in the wild for several days .

 

* * *

The sunset was tingeing in reds and oranges the landscape of Cloisterwood , while Ifan was sitting on a fallen tree trunk, watching his skewered rabbit to be cooked over the campfire. He had lost the track of time. It was always that way in the wild. It was hard to distinguish weeks from months. The day after day was all what mattered.

Afrit was by his side, hiding his snout in Ifan's belly. Like Ifan, the wolf had been sad and a little bit down lately. More often than not, the animal was looking for caresses that could cheer him up. His usually intimidating look had been replaced by a dark, gloomy one. Exactly the same as Ifan.

After discovering that the target of an old contract was related to Sandor, he needed time alone in order to deal with the shame and the guilt. It was another fault in his long list of regrets. It seemed that he could not stop compounding his mistakes.

He throw some branches to the fire while his thoughts wandered. He knew it. He knew that, at some point in his life, these damned contracts would backfire him. He could not believe that his instinct had failed. He accepted contracts not after a detailed investigation of the client or their victim; that was not Lone Wolf style—the less you know, the better—but by his instinct. A Lone Wolf had the freedom to choose his contracts, and he had been doing it guided by his hunch; it had been the best advisor during all his years in the pack. It was enough for an estimation of a contract, to know if it was fair in terms of work-payment or if the person requested to be eliminated from the picture was not exactly a blessing for this world. Choosing Daniel Das Vapour had not even been a hunch. The man had a far reaching fame in the outlaw circles; he was considered one of the countless scholars that had too much passion for necromancy, Voidwoken powers, and experimentation beyond any folk's imagination. The image that his guts had projected in his mind when he read the contract was not different from the one when he met the nasty Knilles. A creepy man, too obsessed with source and experiments for anyone's good. Eliminating someone like him implied to do more good in this world than harm. But now he was not sure anymore, his hunch had been influenced by rumours, and rumours were just that, rumours.

He scratched Afrit's head. The wolf closed his eyes enjoying the caress and groaned in pleasure.

“And here you are...”

Ifan looked at his side, identifying that voice before seeing her shadow behind some trees. Sebille.

He kept focused on Afrit, who now was staring at the elf. “Some clue about your Master's whereabouts?”

“Yes. Deeply related to you.”

Ifan raised an eyebrow looking at her. “Me?”

With an impish smile, Sebille approached him enough to sat in front of the fire, but far away from the Wolf. She glimpsed at the rabbit skewed in a stick over the campfire and licked her lips. Then, she looked at Ifan. “Roost Anlon. Does it ring a bell?”

“Ugh”. Ifan sighed loudly, rubbing his face with one hand to finally squeeze his beard. Sandor's involvement with his contracts had not been enough, it seemed. Damned waxing moon of his.

“I will need to share some... words with him. I hope you are not going to meddle in. I appreciate your companionship, Ifan, but not enough to forgive you if you cross my way. I hope I'm clear.”

Ifan stared at Sebille, both of them maintaining a deadly look on each other. That was the way they had been dealing with their lives since forever. The strongest or the most intimidating one was always the winner. The world revolved around fears and potential bloodsheds.

“Crystal clear.” He whispered, and took the rabbit from the fire.

He cut a large piece of meat, pierced it with a stick, and threw it to Sebille, who with perfect precision grabbed it in the air from the cleaner extreme and ripped a bit of the flesh off with her bare teeth. The memory of colourful flowers lasted for a moment in her mind. “Good.”

They ate in silence. The residual bones were thrown to Afrit, who broke them absorbing some remnants of vital source in them.

Content with the night, the full belly, and the calm company, Sebille stared at him once again. Despite ignoring her for a while, Ifan could not resist the pressure of her amber eyes and looked at her in silence. She was scrutinising him as she usually did with a victim, analysing the way he moved, the intentions he was hiding, the darkest thoughts buried in his apparent confident demeanour. From up to down, she dug his surface as much as possible, focusing on his face and hands in the end. She was measuring the real from the fake.

“What?” Ifan finally said.

Sebille squinted at him, never losing her slight smile. “I remember the lick of your arm in the ship. I was seeing you in the distance when you saved an elf from a group of thugs in Fort Joy. I've seen you how you looked at Stewart the first time we meet him, despite his ragged Magister garb.”

“Hey, easy there.” Ifan looked at the fire immediately, colour arising on his cheeks.

Sebille laughed. “You stared at me during our trip to Fort Joy too. But you sensed I was more trouble than anything else.”

Silent, Ifan looked at her by the corner of his eye, just for a moment. What was the point of all that. Uncomfortable was the softest word to describe his current state. “Are you done mocking me?”

“I'm not mocking you. In fact, I'm quite surprised. You really fancy elves.” There was no question tone in her words. “Only those who ignore our abilities fancy us. Once they know we need just a lick to reach their deepest secrets, they become scared.”

Ifan said nothing, he caressed Afrit's head without averting his eyes from the fire.

Still with a smile on her face, Sebille walked to him, and sat by his side, pulling with a single finger his jaw. “Look at me”

He did as her silk voice commanded. Ifan's eye were bright, charmed by that elegant face so close to him. Those dangerous and seductive eyes, the curve of those impish lips, the imperceptible movement of her locks on her bark-skin cheeks, that cursed mark ruining her spirit. He swallowed. Of course he liked elves. They were marvellous creatures to his eyes. There was no way to deny it.

Sebille approached him and licked his cheek, ignoring his rough beard. Her smile broadened as she squinted her eyes. Ifan blushed fiercely when he read beyond that smile.

“Ah. Raised among elves. No wonder your fancies. Oh. But you have quite an exception.”

Ifan pushed away Sebille's arm gently, and twitched his lips. “Stop mocking me. Leave an old man with his desires in his head.”

She laughed. They remained silent for a long moment, focusing on the fire once again and the nocturnal sound of predatory birds.

“If you want, we can look for Roost together, leave Sandor behind now you abandoned his group.”

Wide open eyes, Ifan turned a bit to look at the elf by his side. “Who said I'm abandoning the group?”

She rolled her eyes. “You've been nowhere to be found for a whole month. Sandor didn't tell us what happened to you, but clearly you both have had a disagreement. And I've just licked you to see that, whatever happened, you are the one to blame, with all that taste of regret you left on my tongue.”

Ifan looked down.“How is he doing?”

“He thinks you left us. He seems rather... sad and miserable. But, you know him, that's his ususal description.”

Ifan barked a laugh. Poor Sandor.

“He blasted Fane once, too.” With a quick turn of his head, Ifan looked at her in shock. “Ah, that bag of bones is still walking if you want to know. He tried to do the channelling, and it seems he was not so good as he bragged to be. Low blow for his Eternal pride.”

“Is Sandor okay?”

“Yes. Malady trained him a couple of days afterwards, and whatever the trick he learnt, it seems to be working so far. But as usual, when he is overwhelmed... run and hide.”

“Damn...”

She stood up. “Tomorrow we are going to see Mestr Siva. All Godwokens have to. Something about learning skills, Malady said. I think it's a good moment for you to show up if you are not giving up this mission. Besides...” After a moment, Sebille sighed. “it's painfully obvious that _someone_ is missing you.”

Ifan could not hide the smile on his lips.

She walked away, but before reaching the shadows, she turned a bit “Ah, Magisters are in debt with him. He solved the case of the Missing Magisters. Use the name of Magister Carver if you have any problem in town.” She did not wait the slight nod that Ifan made and jumped into the shadows of the forest.

With the wood fire cracking at his front, Ifan looked at Afrit and found him more cheerful with a happy wag and his bare teeth in a panting-smile.

 

* * *

The dawn was breaking, and the foul smell coming from Driftwood's docks went downwind, tingeing the beauty of a calm daybreak with the squalor of the presence of humans. Ifan wrinkled his nose. It was always easy to smell where humans were or had been. The streets of Driftwood were empty at this time of the day. The first hours of any town were Ifan's favourite ones. Only soldiers or Magisters were at sight, while the rest of people, merchants and citizens, were still sleeping in their beds. He could walk alone without questioning or frightened eyes following him.

His steps halted when he reached the entrance of the Black Bull tavern. He could enter, look for the room they all shared, and try to talk to Sandor personally. But the regret, the pain, the shame were still deep down hitting his chest. He had to deal with this sooner or later if he wanted to continue the mission with the group.

He bit his lower lip, shook softly his head in disapproval, and left the place without entering. He still had some hours in his favour to finally find courage to look at those sad brown eyes.

He went to the West, enjoying the view that Reaper's Coast cliffs had to offer. He stopped at the monument of the Burning Prophet. Giving his back to the statue, he sat at the edge of the cliff and looked down; the waves caressed the rocks. The height was something else there. His guts were hit by the adrenaline, and a slight vertigo dizzied him. The fear was there. It was so easy to fall, to die, to slip, to become an easy target. So many deadly possibilities crossed his head, filled with fear and anxiety. Yet, he remained there, embracing the fear, remembering that such emotion was an undeniable proof that he was still alive. He focused on the sea; waves moved gently against the beach, producing a sedative sound around him.

However, the charm was broken when the crack of shaking branches caught his attention. He turned back a bit, looking over his shoulder, and saw a hooded man with a thick layered robe far away... shaking bushes on purpose. Ifan frowned. _What now?_.

He stood up, resting a hand on the short sword that he had always pending from his belt, and awaited for the strange figure to get closer. When the mysterious character pulled back his hood, Ifan relaxed his posture immediately. It was Sandor. The wizard was smiling at him with bright almost silly eyes. Those intense yet shy brown eyes. Sandor approached him. He was carrying a big book in his hands and part of his fringe, longer than before, was stuck behind one of his ears.

“What a nice surprise. I didn't know it was you”. Sandor said. Ifan answered with an ashamed smile while a bit of colour arose on his cheeks. “I did that-" Sandor pointed out the bushes at his back "-um...I didn't want to startle you and risk you fall.”

“So considerate. Thank you.”

Sandor nodded, still smiling. They remained there, one in front of the other, enduring the awkward silences and looks, until Sandor walked past Ifan and went towards the statue. He opened the book in his hands and with elegant movements, cast fire in every torch.

Silent witness of the spell, Ifan could not stop staring at the man, observing each of his movements, the way that that robe fitted him, the delicate falling of Sandor's fringe on his cheeks. Ifan licked his lips reminding to himself that certain things were good as long as he would stay far away from them.

A scream coming from the statue broke the charm. The spirit trapped inside cried, and from the fire, the altar burned to leave a medallion on its surface. Sandor took the accessory and inspected its nature by casting some magic on it. It was a protective amulet. Under the scrutinizing eyes of Ifan, he walked to him and held the amulet in the air, waiting for Ifan to bow, so he could put it around his neck. Surprised at first, Ifan did not hesitate and allowed him to add the medallion to his already diverse collection.

Straightened, towering above Sandor, Ifan took the medallion and put at it on his palm. Then he looked at Sandor, and nodded as a gesture of gratitude, “I wanted to talk with you, in private”

“Well, here we are” Sandor's smile disappeared, and his eyes fell on the ground.

“I'm... I'm not asking for forgiveness. I understand if you-”

“I've told you already. I don't hate you, Ifan. I know that, as troublesome as it may sound, what you did... I don’t blame you.”

Ifan frowned. “How can't you?” He said in a whisper. “In your shoes, I would make the responsible suffer. A lot. And slowly.”

Sandor glimpsed at him with surprise. “Well. Like I told you... it's not as if he were my father. He was just... a tutor. A person who fed me, and gave me where to sleep.”

“You don’t mind to know that someone you cared about was slaughtered?”

“Don't say that”, Sandor whispered, frowned face, squinted eyes. “It's not like I don't mind. I do... but....” he sighed.

“But?”

“I also care for you....” Ifan did not blink but his breath stopped suddenly. He restrained any possible gesture that could display the deep and shaking blow he had just received in his chest. “I... I mean, we are good companions, right?”

Ifan blushed a bit, as much as Sandor's smile trembled and his eyes jumped from a side to another.

“Very well”, Ifan said after a long silence, “I won't forgive myself, for both our sakes”.

“Don't be so hard on you...”

“The man saved sorcerer children. Killing him did more harm than just making him disappear from this life”

Sandor looked down.

Ifan remained there, flinty eyes, stony attitude. He was ready to receive any blow that Sandor could consider fitting, any reaction born from frustration and pain, he was not going to dodge it. But Sandor, still with his face looking down, simply approached him and hugged him. His slender arms surrounded Ifan's waist and his hands rested on his back. A caring embrace with a timid squeeze. It took a moment for Ifan to react and hug him back.

“More harm would do to lose the few friends I've ever had.”

Ifan was disarmed. He squeezed him tighter, placing his chin on Sandor's head. He needed that. Since a long time.

 

After a short moment, they parted the embrace and looked aside, recovering from the impact of the moment.

Sandor touched Ifan's forearm, feeling the cold steel of his bracers, “we need to go. Meistr Siva awaits us.”

“Sure...”

 

* * *

Once again, the shock remained even after their return from the Hall of Echoes. The Gods had talked to them once more, and they gave them a terrible gift: the power to see spirits. During the first week everyone tried to endure the experience silently, to make it look as if nothing serious had happened in their lives. However, any flick of source in their bodies allowed them to see the lost spirits. A laugh, an annoyance, a surprise. The smallest of the reactions allowed them to see glimpses of a parallel reality overlapped and, until that moment, completely hidden in their daily life.

Wandering spirits claiming vengeance, dark figures drown in despair and sadness, aimless lost creatures praying to gods that give them no answers. Every kind of ghost they could see, break them a little bit. Over the days, their jaws became more tense, their chests tighter, and the tension adding up to their already tired minds were working against them. The quests were hard to complete, mistakes were made more often, and the shadow of dark circles under their eyes were a proof that this new ability was more a burden than a gift. They were exhausted. So that, in an attempt to heal their tired spirits and minds, Sandor proposed to take a break from their quest.

One of the few places with the less amount of tormented spirits roaming around was Driftwood main centre. For that reason they rested in the city, instead of looking for far away places and with better smell. Lohse would have killed for performing in the main square, but her condition forced her to be conformed with simply playing with the city kids while Sebille, a bit far away from them, smiled at the scene. The innocence and the purity displayed in the kids made her remember what it was like to be naïve and free of real terrors. She was almost jealous of them. Fane had preferred to stay in their room, reading more books and asking Sandor endless questions that, most of the time, were impossible to answer.

Out of the blue, Ifan appeared at the door frame, and with a goofy smile invited Sandor to his favourite tavern in the world: Effie's Emporium. They were going to taste the best beer ever, a new and unique brew that only once every five years Effie could bring. It was the perfect place where to relax, free of spirits if they did not watch the arena. Effie's Emporium was one of the cleanest places from roaming spirits.

Reluctant at first, Sandor excused himself, explaining that Fane needed his knowledge to perform his research. With his pride affected by such inaccurate comment, Fane shooed Sandor away, claiming that he needed nothing from him but the room to keep reading.

With the plan backfired, Sandor had no more choice than to accept the invitation. Ifan promised him that this beer would be the best experience he was going to have in quite a long time: drudanae beer.

“Drudanae beer?” At first Sandor worried about the consequences of drinking such brew for the first time.

“It's not made of drudanae completely. It's just beer. With a pinch of drudanae. Relaxation is guaranteed”. Ifan said with a pat on Sandor's back to calm him down. “It's going to be fun. Trust me”.

“I don't see what's the fun in getting drunk. And being high. And being confused.”

“What a good life you had been so far, my friend", Ifan laughed, as both walked down the stairs. "But we are not going to get drunk. Just relax. It'll simply make us feel good. Good company, good drinks, good music.”

“Music?” That had caught Sandor's attention.

“For this time of the year Effie likes to bring some artists. They are a nomad company, performing Dwarven music of epic, ancient times. You'll like it.”

Ifan waved his hand when Effie looked at him. He winked at her, asking for her special service today. With an inviting gesture and a jovial smile on his face, Ifan walked with Sandor to the superior levels of the tavern, where a couple of tables and chairs were available. From that height, it was possible to see the music company arranging their instruments in the middle of the tavern where the giant pipe used to be, temporally removed due to the event. The favourite spot of everyone for an epic performance.

The waiter brought two mugs and three jars of the special brew of the house. Ifan nodded at the waiter, and with a smile looked at Sandor. The wizard was as usual, his jaw tensed, rounded shoulders, and hands hidden under the table, probably twisting his fingers in nervousness.

“Ifan, promise me something..." Ifan tilted his head, listening in silence, "Don't let me be a fool. You have to control me if I don't. I've never been drunk in my life.”

Ifan laughed full and throaty, pouring the liquid in both mugs.

What started shy and restricted, ended with a Sandor drinking his seventh or eighth mug, full of smiles and giggles, moving in his chair like a kid and talking in an even more childish way. Ifan could not deny he laughed more than ever at the expense of the clumsy wizard, but enjoyed even more the lightness that such beer caused on Sandor. It was a refreshing sight. There was a joyful glint in Sandor's eyes when they met his, something Ifan had never seen before.

“You are really enjoying this” Ifan said in a soft voice while drinking his third mug, and music started in the tavern.

Ifan was far away from feeling a bit of lightness in his head due to the brew. Drudanae beer was expensive, and Effie used to water it down, so it was more diluted than a real beer and lighter than a puff of drudanae. Years of drinking terrible alcohol and smoking even worse mixes had helped him to develop an unbelievable resistance to substances of any type. He could not say the same about his wizard fellow.

Sandor giggled. He rubbed his eyes exaggerating his movements and looked directly at Ifan, sitting closer to him “Oh, yeah. I have a secret I must tell you....” he whispered close to Ifan's ear.

“Secret?”

“This...” he said rotating his hand over the table where their drinks were, “this is my first time in my life getting drunk. And by a handsome. Whaaaaat a luck I had, huh?.”

Ifan laughed throaty. Sandor was clearly in his ninth mug. “You lost your sight with those drinks....”

Sandor ignored his words and traced the border of the mug with two fingers, sometimes falling the edge and letting his fingers float in the air, “It's said that first times shape people, mark them. Our personality is the sum of all those first experiences. Having nice first times is... hell, I envy people with nice first times...”

Ifan looked at him curiously, “We are a bit old to think about first times of anything, I reckon. "

Sandor rested his face on one hand and looked at his companion with chin up while trying to take another sip, “Oh, the man of the world. I forgot you have...such a vast experience everywhere, about everything...”

Ifan twisted his lips. The man could be drunk but his sarcasm was sharper than ever. Ifan shrugged, "well, a lifetime is not enough to try everything, so... Okay. I get it. Then... this is your first time getting drunk. _Decently._ ” Ifan's mockery tone accentuated the last word.

“Oh, absolutely. Do you know how could it be non-decently?” Ifan raised his eyebrows, in a gesture for Sandor to continue “you could be older, and ugly. And Drunk. Stenchy. With oily hands. And an assassin. Looking for my heart. With knives.” Sandor moved in his chair and pressed his forehead against Ifan's shoulder. “With a contract to fulfil. A contract you paid. Smell of money in your hands. Oily hands. You could be a spider monster-man.” He drew back, squinting at Ifan's profile, while the man kept drinking his mug restraining his laugh, “Looking for a victim. Ah. Who's better victim than a stupid bastard, drunk for the first time, in a tavern underground. Oh, hell, I can scream, and nobody'll know... Ifan!. Nobody'll know!. Scream and scream, and nobody _will_ know.” Sandor hugged himself, hunched shoulders, and trembled.

Ifan nodded, hardly concealing the laugh that was exploding in his throat. He patted Sandor's back to bring some comfort in case the drudanae, despite being so diluted in their drinks, could be giving to his friend a bad trip. For a moment, Sandor seemed to become quiet and relaxed, forgetting the screams and the spider-monster-man.

By the time Ifan was going to take another sip, he felt Sandor's hands on his own hair, running his fingers, and playing with some strands, sometimes scratching his nape. Ifan tensed his back, closed his eyes, and drown a sigh in his throat. That had been wonderfully unexpected.

“When was your first one?” Sandor whispered in a slur.

Ifan frowned looking at his mug. “W... What do you mean?”

“Grey hair... you have a looooot now.”

Ifan looked up, trying to detect some of those grey hairs that fell on his forehead. He smiled, allowing Sandor to pet him there, where the grey hairs were many. “Got my first ones when I was too young. Back then, when I was conscripted into the Order. The war gave us a lot of them. To everyone.”

Sandor kept combing some of the hardest grey hairs, stubborn to keep behind Ifan's ears. The clumsy caresses gave Ifan goosebumps. “You are not so old... right? You look like fifty with them. But you must be, like me, around your... forties?” Sandor said.

Ifan drank, amused with this funny and very touchy-feely Sandor. “Yeah. Around forty. Give or take. Never knew my age when the elves took me in. To live with them blurs the numbers even worse—they are awful with their sense of time, I tell you—so, I'm always considering my age with five years more or less. It's hard to guess."

Sandor stopped combing Ifan's hair, and placed his hands on the table. “You must have a lot of first times in many departments.”

Ifan cleaned his lips with the back of his hand, and looked at Sandor, resting his temple on his fist. The wizard was closer than usual to his shoulder, leaning in on it. His brown eyes were a bit unfocused, and his face was red. The drudanae pinch in the alcohol certainly had been a lot for a first drinker such as him. But Ifan was enjoying this, to see a completely relaxed Sandor for a change. “I know where you are going...” Ifan said in husky tone.

“Oh, you know. So, no use in being smooth?”

Ifan rolled his eyes. Scholars. Mature scholars with non-experience in life, at all. He knew them too. “Shoot your question.” Ifan drank his fourth mug that now was making him more relaxed than before.

“To talk about first times is to talk about this: your first time”

Ifan took a moment, squeezing his necklaces unconsciously. This was rather personal, but.. to the hell with the distance. Today was a relaxing day. A day all of them deserved. To know a bit more of the other would not harm. “What about it?”

“Fiiiirst times shaaaape people. How did it do it to you?”

“I... I don't know. It was... with a wonderful woman. Nueleth. She was a Paladin.” Ifan drank violently the rest in his mug, feeling his guts twitching. Immediately, as he always did when thinking about her, he started to fidget one special medallion.

Sandor blinked and rubbed his eyes which were getting more and more unfocused. “Was she special to you?”

Ifan nodded, his eyes fixed on his empty mug, bringing her face into his mind. “It was days before heading to the first true fight in the field, during the war. Life in the regiment is clear: you get what you want if someone else wants it. But nothing should go deeper. You never know if the next battle will be the last one...” Ifan's eyes darkened “and soldiers should not compromised their performance in the battle because of emotions...” Ifan stopped, realising that Sandor was right. Something of this experience, being the first one, had shaped him deeply. It had shaped the way he compromised with others, the way he looked for certain things, the way to share in middle of despair. Although it was a little addition in a vast amount of experiences that ended up modelling his soul. However, to see the true weight of the experience in his character resented him. “We should get used to never take it seriously. It should be just a moment to forget at dawn.” Ifan poured more beer and drank, grateful that Sandor was too drunk to appreciate the knot in his throat and his trembling hand fidgeting the ring necklace.

“That's what shapes...” Sandor drank a bit more and leant against Ifan's shoulder again, “Another first?”

Ifan cocked one eyebrow “What?”

“Fiiiirst time you fell in love, fiiiiirst time you kill, fiiiiirst time you saw a dead, Fiiirst time you felt an ill touch, the fiiirst-”

Ifan frowned, taken aback. Certainly the progression was getting less and less funny. “Okay, okay.... I don't know why you are so fixated on first times.” he hesitated to keep the conversation going on. It had changed from happily stupid, into a little bit dark; the omen of a future, depressing topic coming ahead. He knew it.

“Books. Books always say and show and make you love the wonderful ways the first times happen. Novels, essays, documents. They always show how those can shape a person's soul. First times in all aspects of a person's life. Unbearable pain shapes sadness. Exquisite pleasure shapes wickedness. Endless torture shapes cruelty. Loneliness shapes kindness. The first taaaaste shaaapes in all ways.” Sandor's wet eyes raised to meet Ifan's. They were now completely unfocused and flickered sometimes with non-threatening sparkles of source.

“Life is not a book” Ifan scratched his beard, looking at his own mug.

Sandor shook his head like a child, “Books are written in order to reflect life.... Novels? May be fictions... but the rest are documents, they capture life on paper. ”

“Well, if they do that, just go ahead and read.”

Sandor pouted, glaring at Ifan. He tried to look intimidating, but the small sway of his torso made it impossible, “Buuuut, there is no book about you. How would I know you?. How would I know the way you were shaped?”

“Ah, I assure you, if that book exists, it must be boring as fuck.”

“I doubt it”. Sandor lent his cheek on Ifan's shoulder, and whispered, “I'm curious about you.”

Ifan looked down, sheepishly. Once again his gut received an imaginary blow. He reminded himself that this was a drunk man he was talking with. “Remember me not to invite you drinks ever again, not even watered-down beer”

“I will forget anyway... come on. Spoilsport. Let's start with the easiest one. Fiiiirst time you saw a dead.”

Ifan stopped the sip of his fifth mug and looked down, sad. “My parents.”

Sandor looked up at the ceiling of the tavern “Parents lost. That, what gives life and nourishment, lost. Since too young. Sooner than anyone, you understood the heavy weight of life. The importance of gentleness. The true value of life. That's what the image says. Next one. Your fiiiirst kill?”

Ifan frowned. “Where did all that come from?”

“The patterns. I've read a lot in my life, and patterns are easy to see. The symbols are clear. Don't derail, Your fiiiirst kill?”

Ifan swallowed. This was getting more and more uncomfortable. “A young man, at war. The arrow passed trough his neck. He fell close to me, I looked at him in the eyes. His eyes... were... so dark.” He shook his head, his sight unfocused, lost in the past reminiscence, watching still that vivid memory “He was the son of a merchant that used to trade with the elves. He knew me. And in that moment, he recognized me. And I recognized him.”

“An acquaintance. Someone like youuu. Caught in middle of the bloodshed. Ah, the tragedy. More for the concept of life's weight. Its randomness. The survivor is the winner, no matter the good or the evil in his soul. Dark eyes don't see beyond the mountain of corpses. Next. Your fiiiirst -”

“Stop. Stop. Ok.” He drew back a bit, his hand on Sandor's shoulder to keep distance. “I don't like this game anymore.”

“It's not a game, It's a reading. Without a book.” Sandor's hand extended in the air “Just looking at you, and listening to you ” He whispered, caressing Ifan's beard with his fingers. After a moment he looked down and leant his body toward the mug on the table. He drank a bit more.

“Ok, let's play then. You read enough from me. Now I want to read you.” Ifan smiled, pointed teeth in impish smile. “Your first dead.”

“The same that my first kill”

“And it was .....?”

“The first time....” Sandor started to laugh as some tears ran through his cheeks, wiping them out quickly with his hands. Ifan frowned disoriented. “Nothing special... no first time is special here”, he said touching his temple with his fingers, crying “I've run out of good things. The only special, nice first time is this....” he moved his hand in a broad circle over the table “getting drunk, with good company. I'm too old, and too many tragedy around.... I've run out of good first times.... Have you?”

Ifan remained serious, cautious, a bit worried. The drudanae was now messing strongly with Sandor, he was losing the sense of his sentences. “I don't know. Any example?”

“First kiss. First fear. First touch. First failure. First bite. First caress. First cry.” Sandor whispered in confusion.

“I think most of them are covered in the same first time.”

“Oh, the _Sir_ had it all in one package. You see? You had decent first ones.”

Ifan squinted at him, measuring those drunk answers with worrisome implications. Implications hard to reach when sober. He sighed deeply, drinking the last bit of his mug and placing it on the table with energy “Ok, my first time saying _< <I think you need to go bed>>_, is right now. So...”

Sandor giggled. “Smart ... let's talk about the last ones.”

“By the Seven.... not this again”

Despite the protest, Ifan grabbed Sandor's arm and put it around his neck, so the wizard could more or less walk without falling. The stairs to the room in the Black Bull Tavern were too long for such a dizzy man.

Ifan placed Sandor's body on his bed and took off his boots. He placed a blanket over him, and looked at him for a while. The man was already sleeping. His fringe was a mess, so Ifan moved it, clearing that face. He could not restrain his hand, and touched Sandor's cheek with his thumb, not sure what he was expecting from that stupid scholar. He only could stare at him.

“I won't say to anyone, but let me tell you, that's creepy”.

Ifan startled at Sebille's voice. He rubbed his face and looked at her. She was in her bed. “No, no. It's not what looks like... It's just a...um... he drank a lot and... I'm worried... um.”

“A life threatening situation, indeed.” Sebille said with a sardonic yet friendly smile.

Ifan looked at her reprehensibly, but he simply dropped the act. It was obvious for her anyway. She had licked him before. Ifan changed his clothes behind the folding screen placed at the corner of the room and went into his bed, being always scrutinized by Sebille's eyes. She was sitting on her bed.

“What?” Ifan whispered.

She laughed softly. “You can't, right?. You can't approach your own race”.

Ifan rolled his eyes and turned over his bed. “Good night.”

Sebille's laugh was the last thing he remembered.

 

 

Next day, the group got up and took breakfast at the Black Bull tavern, getting ready to continue their mission once more.

Lohse and Sebille were talking about children stories and its different versions while Ifan was looking at them, listening with attention while drinking milk with bread and eggs.

Pressing his temples, Sandor walked defeated across the tavern to the table, and sat in front of Ifan who chuckled at his sorry sight. It had been just watered-down beer.

Sandor looked at him with sheepish eyes. “Please. No.”

“ _First_ hangover, huh?”

Sandor hid his face in his arms, spread on the table until Lovrik came with his breakfast ration.

They ate quietly, while paying attention to Lohse and her narrations. She was more enthusiastic than anyone, considering that day they were going to head to the North, in a hopeful attempt to find Jahan and help her with her demon.

When they were ready to leave the tavern, Sandor poked Ifan's shoulder, always looking down in shame. “I'm sorry for yesterday. I have fragments of memory and...” he blushed. “I can't believe I was so indiscreet... I'm sorry”.

Ifan beamed at him and patted his back. “Don't worry, lad. It was a funny bonding time.”

Sandor smiled. _Bonding_. He nodded and forgot the scene.

“But believe me, I won't let you get drunk never again. Your first and last time drunk was that, I swear”.

Sandor chuckled and threw his staff on his back. Now they had to focus in something else.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

The meeting with Jahan did not offer the solutions that Lohse and her companions were expecting. It ended in a deal that they had to accomplish in a mysterious and creepy isle called Bloodmoon. Facing the dangers of the place required them to become stronger, so the exploration of the lugubrious isle had to wait a couple of months.

So far, they had been focusing in Lohar's mission: to find the Source-Master Mordus and kill him. After days searching through the Reaper's Coast's lands and the exploration of several caves, they finally could find him. Their confrontation with the undead dwarf had let them earn a novel source capacity at the expense of having one of their worst experience ever, specially for Sebille. The Voidwoken flesh was sour, and the raw memories that brought into her mind made her tremble in silence for a long while. She never explained what she had seen.

Once they returned to the Undertavern, bringing with them the results of their mission, Lohar was satisfied and gave them rich rewards and valuable information. The information was going to lead them to their next objective.

 

At the entrance of the Black Bull, in the same table where Stewart used to work on, Sandor was reading several letters that Lohar gave them as proof of his words. Fane was by his side, wearing a human disguise. They were planning what to do next. According to Carlo—Ifan's friend—their next step seemed to be pointing to the North, where an old sawmill was built. They had heard that recent Voidwoken attacks had damaged the zone, so the path that led to the North was going to be complicated for certain.

The wood creaked under Ifan's steps, who approached them and looked over the table.

“Going to meet my old pack, don't we?”

“We must take all the precautions that are needed.” Fane explained.

“I know this place” Ifan said pointing the Cullwood, “every now and then some elves place a camp. This point it's safe. They never place a camp in a dangerous zone”

Fane chuckled. “The ones that were hit by the Deathfog were not so sharp, it seems.”

Suddenly, Ifan's face hardened, and glared at those dead human eyes. His pupils retracted, and an invisible miasma of a dangerous bloodthirsty need surrounded him, making Fane to tense his jaw. The silence was as fragile as a bubble made of soap.

Fearing to collapse the situation and turn it into an uncontrollable storm, Sandor touched Ifan's forearm too slowly, inducing the assassin to avert his eyes--and all the dangerous thoughts that had crossed his mind--from Fane.

Mistrustfully, Sandor looked down at the map. “So Ifan” He sighed, suffocated by the tension around the table “We are going to head first to this camp you have just said . We'll see if we can gather some intel there beforehand.”

Calmed down by the touch, Ifan looked down at the table once again, and then at Sandor. He nodded.

“Then it's settled. Tomorrow we'll head to Paladin Bridgehead.” Sandor said. 

“Very well” Fane stood from the chair, looking at the Market far away in the distance, “I'm going to prepare some potions we may require, eventually. Do you need me to get you something, my fellow?” He said looking at Sandor, who was tense, his eyes a bit widened than usual, and shook his head. Then, Fane observed Ifan, whose mood was already sour by his last comment. “Do you want a tranquillizing potion? You seem rather tense.”

Ifan raised an eyebrow, and once again, glared at him.

“Fine. I apologize for my previous comment. You told us about your past. I've made an insensitive observation.” Ifan's threatening posture relaxed. “In any case, I'll fetch some ingredients. See you at night.” He walked to the market and his human figure, same as any other, mixed with the crowd. 

Sandor gathered some books and notes on the table, enduring the silent and vigilant presence of Ifan by his side.

“Do you have something to do now?” Ifan asked, taking a seat while observing how the wizard piled the books up. 

“Mn. No, not really. I was planning to-” he moved his hands delicately, rubbing his thumbs with his index fingers, faking a mocking voice “-shockingly, read.”

Ifan chuckled. “Yes. You always living at the edge.”

Sandor laughed too. “Well, this Godwoken issue makes such joke pointless.”

Ifan nodded several times, rising his eyebrows in a gesture of complete approval. He tapped the table a couple of times with his fingers, and stood up in a clean movement, his mood lighter and more relaxed than a minute ago. “I've came to invite you to share something” Ifan finally said, smiling.

Intrigued by the message, Sandor looked up, still sat in his chair. From there, Ifan looked taller. “Share what?”

“A toast.”

Sandor grimaced. “Are you aware what happened last time I drank?”

Ifan barked a laugh, and clapped on his back stronger than he wanted to, shaking Sandor with the gesture. “Believe me, nobody more than I wants you to be as sober as possible”

“I don't know.... we drank some weeks ago...”

“C'mon. Just one drink. Trust me.”

Sandor sighed and finally stood up, resting part of his weight on his arms. “Very well. If something happens, you are the only one to blame”

Ifan nodded in a exaggerated way. “Fair enough”

They walked to the Effie's Emporium, certainly this grimy place was Ifan's favourite one.

Sandor took a table close to the pipe of drudanae, and waited for Ifan to bring the drinks . Two flagons of beer. As he had promised.

“Let's drink.” Ifan said giving him the second mug. 

Sandor looked inside the mug, smelling it. It was not the cursed brew of several weeks ago, but it was not usual beer either. Suspicious, he looked at Ifan without wording the obvious question.

“Sweet beer. It has lower alcohol than the average one. Like I said, I want you more sober than ever.” 

Sandor laughed lowering his face, hunching his shoulders.

Ifan clapped him, without giving him enough time to over-think the past. He looked around with a relaxed smile on his face. “One must stop once in a while to appreciate the good moments. And if kicking that asshole Mordus's ass and learning a bit more about our powers is not one of those moments, I don't know what it is.”

Sandor sipped and wrinkled his nose. Then drank again. Still awful. “Honestly, it's good to have better company than these drinks”.

Ifan grinned, a bit anxious. “Sweet is not your thing?”

“I think it's more the beer what's not my thing”, he drank a bit more, trying to find comfort in the taste. He was going to complain again when he found Ifan completely lost in his own thoughts. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. Yes.” He said shaking his head softly. “It's just... All this that Lohar told us... about Justinia and the Deathfog makes me nervous.” He sighed, raising his flagon “but let's put those thoughts aside. Just...” he looked inside his mug, “Just for a while”. He drank.

Sandor rested his chin in one hand.“Do you always drink in your leisure time?. don't you do something else?”

Ifan raised his eyebrow. “Like what? Write poetry?”

Sandor smiled. “Well, that would be such a plot-twist”

With a throaty soft laugh, Ifan shook his head. “Not a scholar here." He put his palm on his chest for a fraction of a second. "Hunting a good piece, or maybe exploring new landscapes could be interesting. But they aren't the best offers for sharing with a scholar friend” He tilted his head, pushing Sandor's shoulder with his own. With a kind smile on his face, Sandor straightened his position, and sat closer.

“Ifan... I really like your company”

Sandor soft voice touched something inside Ifan, who looked down as a light blush coloured his cheeks. “I have to say the same. I never feel lonely with you around.”

Both remained silent, side by side, looking at their flagons, feeling each other's warmth while the words kept sinking deeper and deeper. Ifan released a long sigh and turned his body just a bit to face Sandor. He cupped his face, staring at his lips, and sometimes, his eyes. “You... you are incredible”.

Lost in those green eyes that poured gentle desire, hope, and expectations, Sandor only could slid his fingers around the hand that was cupping his cheek. Ifan inched closer, slowly reaching his lips as his hand softly ran down to rest on Sandor's neck. Both of them closed their eyes, and before they could finally kiss, Effie whistled in jeer, clapping and encouraging the rest of the patrons to drag their attention to Ifan.

With the magic gone, Sandor sat straightened, hunching his shoulder immediately after, while Ifan sighed in surprise, listening the patron's exclamations.

_It's a human and not an elf?. Fuck you Ben-Mezd, I lost my bet._

_Finally got a prey._

_It was about time Ifan, you, old bastard._

_Look at the not so lonely doggy._

Ifan rolled his eyes at those comments, laughing while trying not to display unease. He pressed the bridge of his nose, lowering his red face, and looked at Sandor for a brief moment. The wizard was as mortified as himself. Even more. With a laugh, Ifan pulled Sandor into a bear hug, and kept that way for a moment until he whispered in his ears. “Let's continue this later... somewhere else.... in a more... private... way”

With some nervous pats on Sandor's back, he waited for an answer. Sandor curved his lips in a trembling smile and only then, he left the tavern, leaving Ifan with a bunch of noisy people jeering at him.

 

* * *

 

Last night Ifan did not sleep in the Black Bull room. He did not even appeared for dinner. Lohse had asked Sandor about what had happened with him, considering that the mercenary had been in really good spirit lately. With a knowing smile, Sebille simply played with the needle in her fingers while listening a senseless story coming from Sandor's lips, full of gaps and holes and omissions. She could not know the exact details, but she knew quite well what was happening under all those layers that the friendly Lone Wolf had.

“We need to find this Roost Anlon.” Sebille said, stopping the lame scene that Sandor was performing. 

“But Ifan is the one who knows the location. He spoke last week with his friend, right?” Lohse looked at Sandor who nodded. 

“wasn't today when we were going to the East?” Sebille insisted.

Sandor nodded, curious. The decision had been made a day ago. The departure was supposed to be that late morning, but now it was almost midday and they could not start their way because Ifan was no where to be found, again.

Tired of this game, Sebille saved her needle in her belt and frowned. “Prepare yourselves, I'll bring him” She did not need to waste time listening speculations about Ifan's whereabouts. She simply knew.

After Sebille left the tavern, Lohse looked at Sandor, a hand covering her mouth in surprise. “Do you think those two.... you know.”

Sandor blinked, then shook his head, frowning. No, it was unthinkable. However, he realized how deep elven culture was in Ifan's life. It was easy to see that Ifan and Sebille had became good companions. They usually did not need to use words to know how to combine their movements in fights, when to change the attack, when to stop the strategy they were using and try a different one. Even their sense of humour had common ground. Ifan was the only one who never looked at her with a judgemental attitude every time she ate flesh, while the rest forced a mask of indifference or simply looked aside trying to hide their repulsion the best they could.

Maybe it was also the outlaw origin that both of them shared, or simply it was that common elven culture that made them be so compatible. Until that moment, Sandor had never truly acknowledged the weight of elven culture in Ifan's life, and that realization stroke him like a bucket of cold water over his head. And with this sudden revelation, a wave of worry hit him: he truly knew almost nothing about elven culture. Few books had been a leisure reading in his life in the academy, and he had learnt small bits of their language, the complex tribe system they had, and a complete biased interpretation of the elven traditions. Maybe the key to get even closer to Ifan was there. Among the elves. He decided that he had to do something on that respect.

 

After some minutes, guided by her sense of smell and a bit of intuition, Sebille found Ifan in the Dunes, close to the wrecked caravan they met once they escaped from Fort Joy. The man was crafting arrows, sitting on the ground, looking at the sea. His wolf, by his side, was snuggling in Ifan's neck from time to time. She did not miss that the wolf had become strangely needy lately. Removing any trace of subtlety in her footsteps, she approached him. Ifan never moved his eyes from the arrows he was carving at the moment. 

“Your disappearances are always so impractical.” Sebille said, a hint of bother reflected in her voice.

“You don't seem to struggle in finding me.”

“I'm a precise hunter. Same as you. But less gloomy. What happened now? I thought you two were going to frolic for hours after that failed kiss last night.”

Ifan blushed suddenly, cutting his finger with the knife. He hissed in pain and sucked his finger for a moment. “And you were who had called me creepy once. Were you stalking to us?”

Sebille laughed. “No, I was drinking. But you two were giving such a show to everyone.”

“For the fucking Seven's sake...”

“I even bet for you, and you made me lose twenty gold coins. You should pay them back to me”. Sebille frowned pretending to be offended. “You know? The more I see this pathetic situation from the outside, the more I wonder how the hell you ended with that elf in the ship to Fort Joy. Your skills on this matter are... such a disgrace.”

Ifan sighed. He stuck the dagger into the ground and then looked at Sebille straightforwardly. “Fine. Why are you tormenting me now? What do you want?”

“I want to take Roost by the balls. We are ready to leave, now. The only thing we need is your guidance and, eventually, your _famous_ presence” She smiled mocking the last adjective. 

He grunted, getting up in a clean movement. He took the arrows, put them in his quiver, placed the dagger in his belt, and petted Afrit's head, and let him disappear in the air while a green glowing mist dispersed. “Alright, alright. Let's get it over with”

 

After a couple of days heading to the North, they reached the Cullwoods where Ifan talked with Tovah, the main leader of the elven camp. To know that the Lone Wolves had attacked the group and kidnapped a young promising Scion bittered his mood. Although the Lone Wolf's doings were not his fault, being part of them and sharing their narrowed vision to solve contracts inspired him mixed feelings. Slowly, almost without noticing it, a vague diffused sentiment started to grow inside him, a sense of purposeless every time he saw the actions of the Lone Wolves. Their oversimplified rules used to have far-reaching consequences that affected his future by scarring the past of those he cared about in his present. He thought in Sandor, in Daniel Das Vapour, and bit his lower lip.

They resumed their journey heading to the North, where the old sawmill could be seen from afar. The banner of a ragged flag emulating claws on it was the first warning. Ifan sighed deeply, hardening his face and, secretly, soul as well. He was going to enter as another wolf of the pack, but he had no idea how they were going to get out from it.

He observed the men guarding the entrance. He knew one of them pretty well. A damned psychopath. He looked up, finding the asshole wizard of the pack, Firewater, a cruel man with even a worse temper. All across the Sawmill, several faces, most of them well known, looked at him with respect. Some even smiled at him. A wolf's smile before the assault.

Suddenly, Ifan knew it. He smelled it in the air as his guts twitched. Those eyes were not friendly anymore, but predatory. His instinct told him to run away, to leave. This was going to end in a bloodshed. He knew it.

The confrontation against Roost went out of control when the leader of the pack tried to attack Sandor, and Ifan intervened in the wizard's sake. Trusting their friendship, Ifan was certain that he could convince Roost to put his weapons down, but it became an impossible task. Roost was determined to get his reward and complete a contract instead of trusting his old friend. Ifan had to choose. And he did. He attacked, knowing that his action was violating one of the main rules in this pack:  _never challenge the alpha._

As soon as Ifan stabbed Roost's shoulder, his guards reacted, and in a blink of an eye Sandor and his companions were surrounded by Roost's wolves. They were outnumbered; if they wanted to win this battle, they had to display a vast power. Intentionally or not, Sandor cast violent ice spells that finished in an over-stimulation of his source, which had been sealed by Malady's powers time ago, producing an uncontrollable unbalance of his magic. Suddenly, the freezing fronts of ice melted in green water and evaporated, surrounding the wizard in a green glowing mist. Several continuous blasts propagated across the sawmill, and a massive shockwave of source hit friends and enemies alike.

Lohse covered her face with her arm to receive the impact, producing a nasty burn on it. Quicker than the others, Sebille avoided any harm by using one of the guard's body as a shield, and took advantage of the situation to run to Roost before he could recover from the shockwave impact. Using part of the torn ground as a shield, Ifan saw her intentions, but he did not stop her. His stab had slowed Roost, but he could not find neither the courage nor the pleasure in killing that scoundrel that had once been his friend. It was better to let Sebille accomplish her revenge. Looking aside, he used the earth shield to hide the moment of the end.

Once the blood started to spread broadly on the ground, and the last death rattles were heard, Ifan let his shield to fell asunder and approached Roost’s lifeless body, lost in thoughts. He had never imagined to see him that way, for the last time.

Sandor, using his staff as a support, untied Saheila. Light and cheerful, as if he were strange to the situation, Fane walked close to the black mirror placed in a corner of the room and inspected it, finding it particularly interesting to study it further. He healed Lohse's arm and asked her for help to bring it to the Lady Vengeance.

Some meters away, Sandor watched Sebille getting close to Ifan. She whispered something into his ear while looking at Roost's corpse with a vivid smile. She used her needle to write yet another name on her arm and then she passed by Ifan with a gentle pat on his shoulder. In the following moment, Ifan nodded to no one and looked up, displaying, once more, his cold heartless face. They had to escort Saheila to the elven Camp, and deal with all the wolves that were going to react due to their boss' death.

The fight extended outside the building and did not stop until massacring every one of the Lone Wolves. The only one remaining was Ifan. He erased his assassin face, and looked at the Sawmill, bodies spread everywhere, that iron smell in the air, everything soaked in blood. He felt that sharp pain in his chest once again. It was something close to betrayal, but this time, it felt as if he were the betrayer.

In the end, he had not let them down, not exactly. Every wolf chooses their business, that was part of the game rules. And he had done it. Bad luck those who did not count on facing the infamous  _Silver Claw_ . Deep in his soul he could taste the guilt, but that had to wait. They had to rescue Saheila. At least she was alive. At least.

 

 

That night, when everyone went to their shared room after getting their bellies full of stew, and their bodies were asking for rest, Sandor found Ifan's bed empty. In front of it, Sebille and Lohse were looking at a theatre play book, exchanging comments about its narrative and its various characters in whispers. At some point, Lohse fell asleep on Sebille's shoulder who, like a cat, left the bed carefully without awakening the woman.

Before going to her own bed, Sebille approached Sandor, and closed the book he had in his hands. “The fool is in the dock.” she whispered, looking at the book cover in her hands, and frowned.  _Elven traditions_ written by some random human. “I don't know who's worse at this, him or you”. With a shy smile, Sandor nodded. He dressed his thick layered robe over his bed clothes and left the room. 

As Sebille had said, he found Ifan at the dock, sitting at the edge of the pier where the Magisters used to control the entrance and departure of cargoes.

Strangely, Ifan was alone, without Afrit by his side. Probably it was a consequence of the battle. They had been outnumbered during their confrontation against Roost, and also in their battle way out of the sawmill. They had used all the energy and source they had.

Sandor made his footsteps heavy, easily noticeable to avoid unnecessary stress in his companion. With the creaking wood under the wizard's steps, Ifan turned his face just a little bit, enough to adjust his ear to the coming sound, but never turning to look at him completely.

Sandor sat by Ifan's side, leaving a small space between them. Things were still unclear on that matter. He gathered his legs and pressed them against his chest. Silence. There was only silence for a while, a mutual, calm, and accompanying silence.

Shyly, Sandor observed Ifan's profile. The man was bathed in moonlight, looking at the sky while resting part of his body on his arms extended behind him. Sandor looked up too. The sky was gorgeous. Three strips of clustered stars marked the sky in what Rivellon used to call the Dragon's Claws. The mark of a Void Dragon that had almost destroyed the world. A mere Myth. Besides those strips, there were scattered stars everywhere, and the moon in a corner of such sky, full and bright.

“Mother Melati used to tell me that those born under this beautiful moon were lively ones, generous and high-spirited. I bet Lohse was born under a moon like this. What kind of moon you were born under?.”

“Waning moon.”

“Ah, a gentle one. Shy and intense” Ifan smiled. It was absolutely fitting. 

“Yours?”

Ifan sighed with uneasy. “Waxing moon. It marks those who will struggle too much in their life. It's the bad card or the bad number in any game”. 

“And you believe in that? A moon determines all our destinies?”

Ifan shrugged. “I tried all my life to prove it wrong... with um... zero success. So far. Some days I think that may be correct. Most days, I trust we make our own choices and live up to them. We can't be bound by the skies, even though they're so beautiful.”

Silence.

With a trembling, hesitant hand, Sandor touched Ifan's forearm. Their eyes met for the first time since their return from the sawmill. As a valuable and fragile treasure, they remained silent for a while, looking at one another under the moonlight.

“How are you doing, Ifan?”

Ifan's eyes became a bit wet as he swallowed, then he looked up. “He was not a bad man. Roost, I mean. An asshole sometimes, but....who's not?” Sandor rubbed Ifan's forearm, caressing the little accessible skin he could find. Ifan's bracers were in the way. “I remember some nights with the guys, wrestling over stupid things while betting drinks. They are a kind of family, in its own way.” He sighed. “They were”.

Ifan lay on the hard wood of the pier and rested his head on his arms. That position allowed him to keep seeing the beautiful sky and Sandor.

“We all had a long, hard day today with the Lone Wolves. We all felt the weight of it... but you... I can't imagine.” Sandor looked at him unafraid of the intensity of the moment “I'm here for you.”

Ifan sighed and shook his head. “I'm too tired of losses.” he said.

He knew that every group he got attached to was a potential loss, but he never tried to avoid it. He did not want to become a man dead on the inside, unable to reach people, to enjoy friendship afraid of a potential loss that may never come. He did not want to die alone.

Sure, most of the time he was willingly to establish friendship by convenience, but if there were chances to have a deeper bond, why not?. The Lone Wolves, dangerous and unstable in their own ways, had became that. A bond for his orphan soul. They had been a family, with a grumpy uncle, a horny aunt, an annoying cousin. 

He smiled at the reminiscences. “Half of those people were brothers and sisters in arms, working together sometimes to get a job done... killing them was... well, bad.” Ifan moved one of his arms and took a coin from a belt pocket, placing his hand on his belly and moving the coin in an artistic way along his fingers. “When you enter to the Wolves you know this may happen eventually. We are all Lone Wolves at the end of the day.”

“But you don't expect to kill each other, do you?” Sandor whispered in surprise.

Ifan snorted, “Sometimes there are contracts overlaps. No many ways to solve it.” He sighed. “First Wolf I met when I'd just joined them was an old man. Someone contracted him to kill me. We met at the local tavern and talked about our contracts. He told me there was no point in dwelling in regrets and nostalgia, and he unsheathed a knife nd stabbed me, the bastard. I bled like hell, but I managed to kill him.” Ifan smiled, a sad, nostalgic gesture. “Lone Wolves don't think too much in the future, or in the past. We just live in a senseless present.” Sandor kept looking down at him, enjoying how open and vulnerable Ifan was choosing to be at his front; physically and emotionally “-but, um, you know...when I saw Roost today, I thought I was going to hug an old asshole that grew like a brother on me. Any other Wolf would have taken the contract looking for my head, but not him... still yet, he chose a contract over me.” He forced a sad snort. “I guess I'm not a good Lone Wolf after all.”

“I'm glad for it” Sandor said as Ifan curved his lips in the smallest of the smiles. 

Silence. 

With trembling hand, still afraid, Sandor reached Ifan's messy hair, and ran his fingers along, sometimes cleaning his face of stubborn grey hairs. At some point, Ifan closed his eyes, enjoying every level of such caress. Sandor did not miss the gesture. A Lone Wolf, open and vulnerable, closing his eyes. 

“When we were in the sawmill, before meeting Roost, I talked with a man. Firewater was his name.” Sandor said.

“Ah, that asshole.” Ifan opened his relaxed eyes, meeting Sandor's “He bothered you? Well, for what it matters now, his ass must be freezing in the Hall of Echoes.”

“I also saw his lover's spirit right behind him.” Ifan raised his eyebrows. “She wanted him to say her name. She was hurt because... he killed her.”

Ifan sighed and shook his head slowly. “I know...”

“So... is it true?” Sandor looked into Ifan's calm green eyes, they were almost amber under the moonlight. “Do you need to kill what you love before being part of them?” Ifan simply nodded in silence, closing his eyes for a moment, as Sandor caressed his head forgetting any intention of taming those grey hairs. “That's so cruel...”

Ifan smirked, “I guess that's what makes the name appealing : Lone Wolves. I don't think people would fear a bunch of crazy guys called Lovely Sentimental Wolves.”

Sandor did not laugh this time, instead, he frowned slightly “Ifan!”

Ifan forced a shallow laugh while Sandor stared at him. After a long moment, and despite his closed eyes, Ifan noticed Sandor's look . “What?”

“You... you had to do... something like that?”

“I'd done it already. Deathfog. Remember?. The Lone Wolves did not ask me to perform that part. It was already... complete.” He sighed mortified. 

Both of them locked their eyes, while Ifan took Sandor's hand and pressed a kiss on his knuckles, caressing with his thumb its fingers.

“It doesn't matter now. I'm out. It seems I always depart leaving everyone dead behind me.” he lifted from the ground, and looked at Sandor, cupping his cheek and caressing with his thumb “If I were you, I'd be careful with that lone wolf who is always around you....”

The joke did not feel like one; no laugh came from any of them. Sandor winced and then embraced Ifan slowly, squeezing with his slender body that big one. A long, deep sigh came from Ifan, as he buried his face in Sandor's neck. He needed that. He desperately needed that. They remained there for a long time, until Sandor sneezed, breaking the charm.

Taking distance, Ifan smiled sadly while Sandor rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. Ifan felt words boiling from his gut, rushing to the surface of his soul, burning his throat. But he stopped them there, before slipping out of his lips. He sunk them in his chest once more, deep down. The moon, the recent mission, his damned new ability of seeing dead, the nostalgia of past times; everything had worn out his endurance for a fraction of a second. He almost... he almost whispered... something that was too early to say.

“Thank you” he managed to articulate instead, standing on his feet after a loud breath. He extended his hands to Sandor and lifted him with a clean movement. It looked like as if the wizard were less heavy than a feather. "Better go inside. Rest. It's getting chill. "

Sandor shook his head slowly. “Are you not going to sleep too?”

“No. I couldn't even if I wanted to.”

“Can I help you?”

Ifan looked at him with a hungry expression just for a moment. He wanted to satisfy the long-standing emptiness that was living in his soul with the desperate and ephemeral taste of flesh and sweat. He wanted to remove any barrier between their bodies, and drink in the savage primitive pleasures that nature offers to her creatures. But he swallowed his dark thoughts with a smile, sighed, and shook his head. He was not going to do that. He was not going to prey on a person like Sandor. He cupped Sandor's rounded face, caressed the corner of Sandor's lips, and kissed the top of his head, patting his neck gently afterwards. To break the tension, he looked at the Black Bull in the distance and sighed. 

“I'm... um... I'll go to Effie's”

Sandor looked at him with surprise. “Isn't it too late for drinking?”

“I'm not going to drink.” Ifan touched Sandor's shoulder just to stop whatever strange idea had crossed his mind. “I just need a hint.”

Sandor calmed down, and remained in silence for a moment. “Are you sure you don't want me around?”

Ifan could not hide a sudden impish smile that curved his lips in delight. He lowered his face to pull himself together. “Look for me in a couple of days. In that room that you use like a studio”.

Sandor nodded, a tinge of worry darkened his features, and left the man, giving Ifan what he needed. Some time alone.

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

After a couple of days since the mission in the sawmill, Sandor went to the undertavern, as he had promised, and found Ifan. The Lone Wolf was in the last room of the corridor, far away from the main movement and fuss of the tavern, smoking drudanae and laying on some pillows and carpets in a corner. His armour was carefully arranged on a chair and he was wearing an unusual loose shirt and loose trousers, but keeping his habitually hands bandaged.

Sandor closed the door and sat in a chair near Ifan.

“So, here you are...” Sandor said softly, a bit worried. Ifan opened his eyes calmly and his lips curved into a smile. 

“As I said”. Ifan took a long deep puff on the pipe, and exhaled trying to relax his back. Sandor crossed his legs, a bit uncomfortable to find the smell of the herb sweet and slightly tempting. The mercenary observed the shift of Sandor's position, noticing the ridiculous amount of layers in that robe; a mere pretension considering that under all that luxury fabric, the man kept wearing his plain brown trousers.

“New mission?” Ifan asked after taking another puff. 

Sandor shook his head slowly, “No, I just was checking on you. I was wondering... how are you doing with... all what has happened”

Ifan closed his eyes and sighed. “I'll live. I always do.”

“I also came because I wanted to talk to you...”

Opening his eyes and leaving aside his relaxed posture, Ifan sat close to a pile of pillows and looked at the man in the chair. He seemed to be far away. “About?. I don't want to talk about what happened in the sawmill.”

“No. It's not about that. It's about.. that time here, in the tavern....”

“Ouh.” Ifan lifted from the several pillows and sat against the wall. He patted a pillow by his side, inviting Sandor to share the place. 

Hesitant for a moment, smiling in the next, Sandor accepted. Not only pillows but Ifan's arm placed gently on his back welcomed him. They were closer than ever, talking to few inches of distance one face from the another. Ifan looked away, took a new puff and exhaled. He left the pipe close to them, and returned to meet Sandor's eyes, a bit of fear twinkling in his green eyes.

“I, um... I'm going to ruin everything. As I always do. Waxing moon, remember?”

Sandor twitched his lips and reached Ifan's hands. They caressed each other's fingers. “Just let's talk. I want to know what you truly think about... this.”

Ifan sighed, averting his eyes, sheepishly. “I don't know how to start what I want to say to you... but... um, I know you brought some mess into my life." he smiled mischievously. "And I like it.” Their eyes met again, so Ifan took advantage of the moment to wink at Sandor. “Just stop making me feel like an idiot.”

Sandor laughed softly, looking down, shyly watching the hands he had in his. Thick rugged fingers with several rings and scars, hard palms and resolved grip. Ifan's hands were always wrapped with functional black bandages to bear the hardness of his steel bracers.

They looked at each other intensely, until Ifan gave up to his desires and kissed Sandor. A mere touch of lips, pressing them in a shy invitation to be open. When it was granted, he advanced into a gentle exploration of Sandor's mouth. Ifan groaned in a lustly way that made Sandor shiver. When they drew back, Ifan remained ecstatic, with his eyes still closed and his lips slightly parted as the sensation—too intense due to the drudanae—passed. His senses were oversensitive, constantly giving him goosebumps all along his body. After a moment, he opened his eyes again and smiled rascally at the wizard. “Privately, much better.”

Sandor licked his own lips and smiled. “It seems that you are enjoying it too much...”

Ifan laughed and reached the pipe to offer it to him. Sandor hesitated.

“Have you never....” Sandor shook his head slowly before letting Ifan end his sentence. “Well, It's not big deal. It's less stronger than a beer but more relaxing. It's just a hint.”

Sandor raised an eyebrow. “The same hint that got you collared?”

Ifan laughed full and throaty. “No, probably less than a fifth of  _that_ hint”. 

Sandor looked at the steamy pipe that Ifan had put in his hands. It smelt sweeter. Meanwhile Ifan stood up, walked with a slight swaying to the entrance of the room, and locked the door. At the click sound, Sandor squinted at him with questioning eyes.

“Just in case you cast some weird fire. Or I need to summon Afrit. Learnt lesson.”. He returned to his spot, wrapping Sandor's waist with both hands, observing how the wizard was smoking or, truth be told, coughing. Sandor was not used to smoke anything at all. But it did not matter. After three or four puffs, Sandor felt the relaxation and rested his body against Ifan's. He even sneaked his hands around him, playing with the border of Ifan's shirt, caressing his skin, over-sensitive due to the drudanae. 

“Feeling good?” Ifan whispered when Sandor rested comfortable on his chest and buried his face in his neck. Perceiving that soft breath on his skin—with the addition of the playful fingers caressing his small back— Ifan could not stop shivering in delight. 

Sandor nodded and squeezed Ifan's waist. “A bit sleepy, I guess.”

“Yeah. It's the relaxing effect. Much better than beer, right?”

They remained in silence for a moment, just appreciating the calm movement of their chests, the soft sounds of their breath, the weight of their warm bodies.

“After sex should feel like this, right?”

Ifan tensed a bit, and frowned in confusion. “What?”

“Just... curious...”

Ifan snorted. What kind of question, a grown man like Sandor, was doing there?. It had to be the effect of the drudanae, after all, the man tended to go into the same topics when drinking too much alcohol. Certainly,  _someone_ had fixated ideas. “Well, I won't say it feels the same... there is a lot of more panting, for sure.” Both chuckled, “but having sex in this state is really intense, I can tell you that. Caresses feel deeper, and kisses... well.” he cleared his throat. Sandor had just seen that intensity a moment ago. A kiss overflowed with ecstasy.

“I see that the voice of experience talks”. Sandor added in his snarky tone, a side that seemed to appear with beer and now, drudanae. Curious, Sandor lifted his body a bit and looked intensely into Ifan's eyes once again just to fall on his lips. His eyes were a bit unfocused—probably the drudanae was hitting him strongly now. 

He licked his own lips and got closer and closer. Ifan could not stop it. He did not want to stop him. He wrapped Sandor's waist tightly and deepened the kiss. Their source started to mingle in the air, sparking here and there, green cracks glowed on their skins, their pupils flickering in green sometimes. All their senses were relaxed yet extremely sensitive for pleasure.

Ifan groaned inside the kiss, full of lust, an incipient fire burning his inside and making him climb for deeper contact. Rubbing his strong palm against Sandor's back, he anchored his hand on Sandor's nape and devoured his mouth. He wanted more and deeper, he wanted to burn in this desire. But Sandor pushed him softly and parted to breathe for a moment, their breathings were a bit ragged. Sandor looked down, bashfully. “I'm sor-”

Ifan stole him a peck before he could finish that silly apology, and smiled at him, his bright green eyes were mixed with source sparkles. “What did you feel? Intense, right?”

Sandor nodded and slowly cuddled Ifan. Both of them were in the edge; that particular blurry edge in which the body was looking for more, drunk in the potential delight, but the mind feared to destroy what was yet to start. That thin line that separated a fling from something else entirely.

“You make me feel so good. You must have had a lot of lovers in your life...” Sandor whispered.

Ifan tensed a bit, remembering with bitterness the last time he shared puffs of drudanae with someone else in a bed. Pushing carefully the wizard away from his chest, he saw his unfocused eyes.

“How was your first love?” Sandor insisted.

Ifan snorted. Fixated topics when inhibitions were down had a clear meaning. Poor man. Living all his life locked in an Academy must have left some desires unresolved. “You really have an obsession with that topic, haven't you?. Questions, questions, questions.”

“Mn. You said it once. I'm a scholar.”

Ifan laughed softly. “Your field of research is unusual.”

Sandor sat aside and looked down, suddenly sad and insecure. “How were they?”

Ifan remained silent. Drudanae used to do this during the first times. Every deep desire or frustration used to resurface in its rawest expression, and sometimes as compulsive little ideas that did not go away easily. Little fears deep under layers of pretended confidence could find their way out; the most childish desires could turn into a life goal, at least as long as the drudanae effect lasted in their heads. Ifan simply caressed the wizard's cheek with tenderness.  _Cute_ . That was the word echoing in his mind. He was so  _cute_ .

“I guess that's an answer” Sandor looked down, disappointed, then he changed the approach. “Did you have a family?”

“Well, my parents died when I was a cub, and elves took me in. They are my family. Um, were. You know that.”

Sandor shook his head. “No, I mean a family of your own.”

Ifan remained silent for a moment, his hand automatically reached his medallions. “For a while. She died on the battlefield... after her... no. Never had the chance again... In a sense it was a good thing. I would have lost my mind if the Deathfog had killed them.” Sandor raised his eyebrow and opened wide his eyes. “What?”

“You never tried again? In all those years?”. His tone was like a reproach, as if such negligence could have been fixed easily at any moment of his life. 

“Well, like I said. Never had the chance.”

Sandor became sad “I can't believe it. You must have met someone, living so much, so freely. Meeting so many people.”

Ifan snorted. Now he was not sure if  _that_ Sandor was a worried one or the sarcastic asshole that used to appear under the effects of drudanae. “Well, yes. I had interest in a few people but it never became mutual.”

“I can't believe that either. How could they not return your affection?”

Ifan smirked, showing his teeth. If this was a joke, he was going to play it too. “I must assume that I have chances with you then”

Suddenly self-conscious, realizing about the effects of the drudanae, Sandor frost and looked at the other side, hearing Ifan's laugh, full and open. He thought that Ifan was mocking him.

“Hey. It was a joke. No hard feelings.” Ifan said.

“But its true.” Sandor said after a moment of silence, his voice had a sad tone of defeat. 

Ifan's smile disappeared.

“You have all the chances with me”. Sandor said as his face turned hotter. _Cute. So damn cute_ , Ifan thought. 

Ifan smiled at him when their eyes met and then kissed him deeply. Drudanae was messing with them in the most marvellous way ever.

 

* * *

Tarquin was looking at the mirror, touching its border while Sandor was casting a spell on its dark surface. At their front, Sebille was caressing her own chin with two finger as Ifan, frowning, arms crossed, could not stop shaking his head in disapproval.

“This is madness.” Ifan said, but nobody paid attention to his words.

With a wide smile, Malady walked past them, and squinted at the mirror.

“I know you don't like the idea, but it may be handy” Sandor said, lopping off his spell and giving some potions to Fane, who poured them on the mirror. All the living ones had to be a bit far away from the procedure because the liquid had a pinch of the same ingredients that Deathfog was made of. 

“We don't even know if this thing can turn into a door to the Void itself” Ifan said with a deep frown on his face.

Fane laughed. "My word, what it means to know nothing about anything. Do you think it's so easy to access to the Veil?. Stop worrying about things that you don't even fathom how they work" Ifan gave Fane a black look.

"In any case, we need further research” Sandor said and rubbed the mirror's surface with a piece of fabric, removing the content of the potion that now was degraded and innocuous. With a notebook in his bony hand, Fane wrote down every alteration on the object's surface, muttering to himself words in another language. 

“I think it's safe for now” Malady touched the black mirror surface; a purple energy was stuck on her fingers. She brought it close to her face, rubbed her fingers, and burnt the residual energy with a small flame of source born from her palm. “Well, I leave you with your new toy. Mama Malady has to go to do shopping. Don't burn the ship down, all of you, be good Godwokens” She disappeared from the door frame afterwards.

“Fine. But know this, I don't like this in the slightest. I've seen what brings this kind of situations.”

Sandor rolled his eyes. “Ifan, this is not Deathfog”

“You _don't know_ ” They locked their eyes.

“Ifan. Trust in me... If something looks odd, I'll get rid of this artefact immediately.”

“It's not about trusting. You may not know about it until it's too late”

Everyone remained silent with the exception of Fane, who snorted as if he were offended by that train of thoughts.

Sandor looked at the mirror. “Imagine what a good strategical resource we may have. If this works, it will improve our communications. Imagine to know in the exact moment when and where Voidwoken are attacking, what place needs suddenly more reinforcement. War-owls can't compete with this... and who knows, we may use them as portals between cities. Imagine the tactical advantages against them....”

Ifan widened his eyes in horror, “Are you even planning to walk across them?”

Sandor's eyes shone, the enthusiasm of new possibilities burning deep inside him. “It's just a thought.”

Sebille looked at Ifan, “I get his point, it's worth risking. Besides, I only see magical material there. If Fane and the others are optimistic with the chances... we can't take down a tool just because our ignorance.”

Ifan raised his hands in the air. All of them were just a bunch of scholars, clearly survivability was always quite low in their list of priorities. Indignation was a short word to describe Ifan's discontent. Finally, he lowered his head in sign of defeat looking at the mirror. An ill feeling crossed his chest. “Well. Do whatever you want. Just don't call me if a monster emerges from that mirror and kills all of you.” He walked away, frowning.

“You know we are going to call you” Sandor said, stopping Ifan's steps with his words. The Wayfarer turned on his heels and looked at him, noticing that shy yet mischievous smile in Sandor's lips, and shook his head, but he could not help but draw a knowing smile. Then, he left.

The scholars remained in Dallis' former chamber, inspecting the object and reading every bit of information that could be found in books. This artefact was going to take a lot of time to understand it before making it usable and efficient.

 

* * *

In order to understand the nature of the mirror, the following day Sandor went to the Stonegarden Graveyard. He had to inspect old tombs, looking for artefacts that may help in their investigation. Several rumours claimed that a lot of scholars had been buried in that place bringing with them special objects, so it was worth checking. By the time he was trying to decipher the eroded name of an old, almost ancient, grave plaque, it started to rain strongly.

He ran several meters and found shelter inside an elegant mausoleum with an open hall entrance. Its doors were broken, so the icy wind kept entering. He did not tried to go farther because the inner doors leading to the crypt were locked. He was not sure if he would have entered, had he found them unlocked. So that, he sat in a corner, avoiding as much as possible the chill wind that did not cease to enter. It was an uncomfortable sensation with his soaked clothes. He compressed himself against the old wall, feeling a bit of warmth on his back or maybe imagining it, and waited for the storm to stop. After a long moment, and tired of that wet icy feeling that was making him tremble uncontrollably, he removed his thick layered robe, struggling during the process; the fabric kept getting stuck on his skin.

 

Meanwhile, under the rain, Ifan walked across the graveyard, looking for Sandor while bringing with him a small bag. He roamed through the place until his instinct told him that an abandoned mausoleum with broken doors was the correct place where to find the wizard. Exactly when he stepped into the shelter, he caught Sandor struggling with his soaked robe, half stuck in his head and one arm. Staring, despite knowing how creepy his action was, Ifan did not want to miss the oportunity of watching that soaked shirt, almost transparent on Sandor's skin. It was dripping water to his already soaked brown pants, tight around his legs. Ifan could appreciate, in the distance, that Sandor's skin was free of any scar, inviting him to think about how he would feel it under the touch of his hands. He realised he had never touched smooth skin before—human skin—and instinctively, he licked his lips. Ifan observed in silence, enduring the guilt of his shameful behaviour while an animalistic desire started burning his gut. His trance lasted what took Sandor to finish his struggle with the robe, which fell heavily on the ground, almost splashing. 

“Ifan...” He said when he found out the man at the door frame, still staring at him. Ifan was dripping water from his hair and beard, but the Lone Wolf cape covering his body was waterproof, so he was dry under it. 

Ifan blinked twice and blushed, clearing his suddenly parched throat. “Um... Fane told me... er, to come in his place. He said something about the mirror reacting to undead essence and he didn't want to miss the event. I don't know. He gave me this”. He offered the bag.

Sandor rubbed his hands on his soaked face, shook off the water in his arms, and took the bag. His hair was absolutely stuck to his temples and cheeks. “Oh, thank you. I needed a piece of the mirror to see if it can activate anything here.” He took the fragment of the mirror in his palm and cast a spell on it, struggling with his trembling hands.

Ifan remained staring while ignoring his guilt. “You need to change your clothes. It's a bit cold for being soaked”

Sandor sneezed and shivered. “I guess. But I have nothing dry.”

Ifan gathered some pieces of old wooden coffins that were piled up in a corner of the mausoleum entrance and made a small campfire. They needed to wait for the storm to diminish.

Sandor's shivering was getting pronounced, reaching to his jaw. Without nothing truly dry at handy, Ifan took off his cape and gave it to him. “It's dry on the inside. But you need to take your clothes off” after those words, Ifan sat in front of the fire giving his back to Sandor. It was a precarious gesture of privacy, but Sandor thanked it. Then, he removed his last soaked clothes, and placed them on a wooden plank close to the fire.

When Sandor wrapped the cape around him, the fresh scent of pine and wood that was always present in Ifan's neck reached his nostrils. He sat beside the owner of the cape.

“It will take time, the storm is rough still” Ifan said looking at the small portion of sky he could see from his place.

Sandor pressed his legs against his torso, feeling the cold surface of all his body. The cape had a remnants of Ifan's warmth that his back thanked silently, but it was not enough. The thought of being inside a warm tavern, close to the hearth was fixed in his mind. He could not stop shivering.

Ifan smiled and placed his arm around his hunched shoulders, pulling him close. Ifan was wearing his armour, that warmth was never going to reach him, but Sandor rested his temple in Ifan's neck anyway. They remained silent for a while, the rain was the only sound echoing in the small entrance. Strangely, the solitude and the grim environment had a relaxing effect in both of them.

Suddenly, they saw a spirit walking under the rain, lost in his aimless steps. It was murmuring something about a child and a lost sun. Ifan tensed at the sight. He grunted. His breath sped up as he felt a rush of source wrapping all his body. That source was immediately concentrated in his fangs, and an evil echo resounded in his mind .

_Feed the wolf inside you._

To Ifan, the ability to see spirits had been disturbing since the first moment, specially when it was about elven spirits. They made him think about the Deathfog more than he wanted to. This last earned skill, recently given by an agonizing Meistr Siva, had turned into a curse. As a human raised among elves, he had seen the consumption of flesh, as often as he had tried it to honour the past of his loved ones, so the assimilation of this new power was easy for him. However, he was horrified by its magnitude. To consume a soul had nothing to do with consuming flesh. To eat the shell of a living one, whose essence was gone, did not destroy the last bits of that person. But to consume a soul... That was abhorrent. And despite his aversion, his shock, his repulsion... he barely could endure the growing Hunger. Something deep and raw inside him awakened every time he saw a spirit, whispering in his mind to eat, to prey on, to accumulate power, because surviving was a matter of domination, of who eats who.

_Feed the wild wolf inside you._

Revenge and anger mixed into a turbulent inner whirlwind of source, desire, and destruction. His darkest cravings surfaced in his mind, convincing him that there was no consequences in releasing his Hunger. He just needed to give in it. Just a bit.

“Ifan?” Sandor's shivering voice stopped the complete fall of his mind, and closed his eyes lowering his face, frowning in a deep sigh.

“Ifan , are you okay?”.

He raised his face and looked outside the mausoleum. The spirit had left. Good. He swallowed and looked at Sandor, smiling. A smile that never reached his eyes.

_Feed the wolf inside you, my dear Ifan._

He closed his eyes, deep frown, and rested his forehead on Sandor's head.

“What's wrong?” Sandor insisted, pressing his body against Ifan. 

Recovered, Ifan looked at the fire. “Well. Everything. The damned Void, the damned black mirror, this damned power.” Ifan rubbed his face with a hand, let a long deep sigh escape from his tight chest, and wrapped Sandor with his arms, his forehead still resting on Sandor's head. He did not mind his wet hair.

The most terrifying part of the power was when any of his companions, Sandor included, used their source. He was consumed by an unstoppable ravenousness that clouded his will most of the time, and all his energy was focus on stopping the dark thoughts crossing his mind.

Damn, summoning Afrit and looking at his loyal old friend was enough for him to feel the Hunger. A desperation proper of an addict grew deep inside him, like an evilness he had never imagined he had. He wanted to believe it was Rhalic's doing, but sometimes, in middle of the confusion, he doubted it. Now, that monstrosity was part of him, tormenting him, wearing him off every day, at every moment. He did not know how long he would hold it back. 

Since they acquired that power, he never spoke on the matter, fearing that the others could see him as he saw himself. Maybe he needed to stop bottling up and share his fears with someone else. And who was better for that than this friend he had been sharing with… well, more than mere friendly drinks. 

“Do you feel the Hunger?” Ifan asked squeezing the man.

“Hunger?”

“This new power.”

Sandor blinked. “What?”

“It makes me crave for source. When I see source, in anyone, it... it whispers in my mind. Dark thoughts.”

Sandor parted his lips, surprised for the confession. He had experienced some need for source, but it was almost imperceptible. In fact, since he obtained the power, his source instability had diminished drastically. It seemed that his particular source condition, this uncontrollable gathering of source, balanced the Hunger and its need for compulsive satisfaction.

“Did you use it already? On a spirit, I mean.”

Ifan shook his head, slowly. “I'm scared. What if I like it?” Sandor unwrapped one of his arms and took Ifan's hand, entangling his fingers with his. “Do you feel it? That need so... devouring”

“No.” Sandor whispered. “Mine is not so overwhelming.” 

“This is not Gods' doing. It can't be. This feels like an addiction.” Ifan finally looked at Sandor “did you already use that power?”

Sandor nodded, a bit repulsed. “It tastes to Voidwoken.” Ifan widened his eyes a bit. “I kept wondering... how different are these Gods from the Voidwoken?. They look for source, they consume it... I've been thinking that these wannabe Gods are just-” he coughed, took his hands around his throat, and grunted while intense glowing source shone in his eyes. Something or someone was strangling him, furious for that poor comparison.

Ifan crawled back, scared by the sudden amount of source that Sandor's body generated from nowhere while a yell saturated his own mind.

_Consume him! Now!_

Ifan closed his eyes tight, furiously. "STOP IT!”.The despair and his fear to lose control called Afrit, who in source-form attacked Sandor's neck. His fangs did not harm his flesh, but whatever was strangulating him, was destroyed by the loyal wolf. In the next second Afrit disappeared, leaving a coughing Sandor, almost naked, sat on a cape that barely was covering his hips. 

Finally free of the whispers—at least for the moment—Ifan crawled to Sandor and wrapped him immediately, checking his neck in case Afrit would have bitten him. But he looked safe and sound. 

“Are you okay?” Ifan said.

Sandor nodded, tired, “Rhalic. Or that thing... I was going to say that I think these gods are not so different than any Voidwoken. And this proves me right. Having them inside our minds is problematic. We have just seen it. We need to do something.”

They sat again in front of the campfire keeping silence for a while. They knew they were in problems, but had no idea how to solve them. The rain continued calmer than before while their thoughts were agitated like a maelstrom.

“This is what we are. That's something we need to accept. And quickly.” Sandor said out of the blue. “The faster, the better. So we can put some use, we may even control it....”

“We are not this” Ifan said. “I'm not _that_ ”.

“We are. Now. And there is no one to blame but ourselves. We accepted this Godwoken condition. We accepted the terms. Here we are.” Sandor voice had a hint of resolve, but it was not completely convinced.

Ifan looked at him frowning slightly. “We were deceived”

“Maybe, maybe not. Who did force us to follow all these stupid rules?. Bloody curse.” Sandor squeezed his legs, chin on his own kneels “We asked for this. We assumed these bloody Gods were... Gods” he shook his head, sad. “We should have known better.” He frowned. Self-blame transpired on his face.

"Are you saying all of this is our fault?" Ifan raised his eyebrows, "We were collared and attacked in middle of the sea without having any control on that. We were sent to Fort Joy, and our only escape was through the Seekers. We had to tell them about what was happening with our...minds."

"And we continued. We did not stop when we reached here. We wanted this."

“Do you really believe that? You wanted this? You?”. He did not continue with the train of thoughts, but it was clear its direction. How a man, who was unable to fight and cast spells at the same time, would have wanted all this mess to happen in his tranquil, boring life?. Ifan twitched his lips. That argument was so close to blame oneself of being killed. They were pawns of these creatures living in their minds, doing sometimes whatever they wanted to. There was not much responsibility to take.

Ifan felt Sandor's head tilted against him, and surrounded him with an arm, while the rain continued. The atmosphere was not the best one to discuss those things.

"Do you think demons and Voidwoken are the same?" Ifan said.

"They are not"

"Sure?"

"I can't explain with details what a Voidwoken is, but demons have no need of source. They prey on everyone, sourcerer or not. They parasitize a living creature, consuming their vital energy even after dead. Voidwoken simply kill their victims by consuming their source"

"I was thinking in Lohse. The way she loses her mind. Is it going to be the same for us?"

"We heard them. They talk to us. They need our willingly actions. That thing living in Lohse's head, doesn't. That's why we are the only ones to blame. We should have known better, we should have stopped this before getting out of control. We should-"

Ifan squeezed Sandor's shoulder stopping him. He was responsible of killing the targets of his contracts, not of a brat taking over his head. For now, he had still some margin for action, and he was going to use it.

"Sandor, I need to tell you something" the man moved his head on Ifan's shoulder just to make clear he was listening. "Controlling this thing in my head is not easy for me. I feel...weak"

Sandor raised his eyebrows. It was nonsense. Ifan had always been under control of any situation. "It's not a possession, you don't nee-"

"I don't know what it is, but I feel weak" Ifan insisted, this time his tone was assertive.

"You only feel parasitized."

Ifan shook his head. “Listen. If I ever attack you once, you or the rest, you need to know how to stop me. I have some flaws in my fighting style. I want you to know them. They are, well, vital. Be the only one who knows them."

Surprised, Sandor drew back quickly and looked at him. “No.”

“Sandor. I've never failed a contract. If I lose contr-”

Sandor looked at him without blinking, shocked. The implications of future danger were enormous, but the thought to put Ifan down... He shook his head. “Don't dare say it. This thing in our heads is looking for his champion. That information, Ifan... it can put you in danger. Don't.”

“But...”

“Take responsibility for it.”

Ifan's eyes widened. “what? Are you serious?. I can't take a damn thing if this controls-”

“If you can't control that and you kill me. So be it.”

Growling, Ifan frowned at him. Where did that brat attitude come from?. He sighed annoyed and looked at the fire. Despite not saying it aloud, Sandor had a point. It was more risky to share that information with another person who had the same crazy entity in his head. He rubbed his forehead.

“Seven be damned”. Ifan said. How the hell he was going to control this growing monstrosity rooted in his mind.

Sandor sneezed several times, wrapping the cape tightly around his body.

“You are right. The situation is bad.” Ifan sighed, and continued afterwards, “But do you know what I can't believe? This idea that we are to blame for this. That we have some kind of responsibility. You are out of your mind.”

“We can't choose what happens to us, but we always choose how to react.”

Ifan snorted. “That's one of your fancy sentences in a ridiculous book, right?. Are you telling me that Lohse is full responsible of the demon in her head?. That Sebille is responsible of the consequences of her Master's desires? We not always have room for reactions. We are not so free.”

Sandor looked at him for a long moment, and squeezed his legs even more. _We never are free_.

They remained silent until the storm stopped.

 


	5. Chapter 5

The study of the black mirror for several days finished with the conclusion that they needed more scholars—or more time—to work on it. It was impossible for Sandor and Fane to focus on the object while keeping track of the missions that were needed for earning Divinity. Tarquin had helped them as much as he could, but the mirror seemed to have an aggressive reaction to him. The first time he approached the object, dark purple tendrils climbed the necromancer and spread a sharp pain where they touched him. He had promised to help them only after understanding what was causing such effect. Until then, Tarquin was not of much use, inspecting the mirror at the distance while suggesting instructions for Fane or Sandor to perform.

Without chances to advance on the mirror, they decided to work on the other pending matters that they had been delaying. So that, they started to plan leaving the comfort of Driftwood and to head to the North—it was going to be a travel that would last two days, more or less—in order to meet a famous demonologist that could help Lohse. That was the reason why, only for that night, they indulged themselves into a big meal and the best wine of the tavern. They had dinner at the Black Bull, surrounded by the finest songs of the Dwarven bard. The only one who was absent was Fane, who had preferred to keep working on the black mirror at the Lady Vengeance. Indeed, he would not have enjoyed neither the meal nor the wine anyway.

The rest, sat around the most isolated table of the Black Bull, ate stew peacefully, talking and joking about old anecdotes. For a couple of hours they just wanted to forget their fears, their mission to Divinity, the dark creatures hidden in their souls, and the gloomy future ahead.

“...And then he walked naked through the whole camp! And nobody wanted to see him so our singer started to play a fanfare. I hate him when he pretends to be coy, she said later” Lohse said, her companions burst out laughing.

Sandor smiled taking another spoon of his stew; Ifan laughed throaty and fully, wiping out a tear from the corner of his eye. Sebille was looking intensely at Lohse, inspecting every single detail; her dark eyes, her hair, the gesture of her hands.

Their vivid mood was interrupted by Lovrik, who approached the table laughing as well, in a smooth attempt to blend in the joke. Still smiling, all of them looked at the waiter, who folded his hands with elegance and lifted his chin.

“Oh, my cheerful friends. I'm so happy to see you all enjoying these accommodations. The sound of your lively mood enhance the tavern.” Ifan squinted at the man while eating a mouthful of stew. He could see hidden intentions in all that speech. “I know you all have been exploring the Reaper's Coast and you are greater tasters of all what these lands have to offer” Sebille raised an eyebrow, and rested her chin on her hand, her movements were slow and controlled like a cat's. “I bet there are still a lot of mysteries left for all of you to taste”

“Last time I tasted a mystery in my life I was threw into a ship with a collar around my neck. So to speak.” Lohse said as Ifan snorted a bit worried. They had already enough frictions trying to persuade the Magisters that could recognize him. They did not want to add more troubles to the ones that they already had.

Lovrik blinked in surprise, not sure how to understand Lohse's words. He looked at Ifan, who gestured at him, suggesting that the red-haired woman was already drunk. Then, Lovrik forced a laugh that never reached his eyes, and continued as if he had never heard anything about a collar. “The tavern is well aware of the quality customers all of you are, so... we want to reward you with some special treatments.” Sandor raised his eyebrows expecting to hear something about free desserts and high quality blends of tea. “Well, more like... special offers”

“Are we talking about chocolates?” Sandor's eyes shone with such desire that Ifan could not restrain a smile. That had been, indeed, so _cute_.

Lovrik opened his mouth for a moment, seeking words he could not find. He closed his lips, smiled, and continued. “We are talking about... special stews. As spicy desserts”

Sandor wrinkled his nose. "Who wants a spicy dessert?"

Lohse and Ifan looked at Lovrik, figuring out the meaning of those words. Already knowing it, Sebille sighed uninterested, and started to play with her needle, moving it quickly among her fingers.

“My great explorers, to clarify what my offering is about... Tell me, who are the best ones with lovemaking abilities across the world?”

Sandor froze, even his breath stopped for a second, as if a violent blow hit his guts. He felt nausea and a repulsive chill crossed his back. Still confused, or maybe just wanting to deny what he had just listened, he looked at Lovrik. He was not suggesting...was he?

“Well, no humans, I tell you that much” Lohse said, as Sebille smirked, looking at her while raising a sensual eyebrow.

Lovrik glimpsed at Sebille who shrugged and kept playing with her needle. Then, he focused on Sandor, whose puzzled face was beyond interpretation. Losing hope to find a client, Lovrik's eyes finally met the last customer of that table, and smiled; he saw _that_ grin in Ifan's face.

“Lone Wolves say Lizards.” Ifan put two fingers on his lips to form a V. He snorted and lowered his hands to finally explain, “It's all in the tongue”.

“Oh, my” Lohse giggled.

“Exactly. And for an insignificantly small sum, I can introduce you to the greatest lovers that the world has ever tasted.”

Sandor looked down, trying to focus on his stew, but his stomach was already revolted.

“How _small_ is that sum?” Lohse asked mocking Lovrik's voice tone.

“Just a hundred coins. This exquisite pleasure is not something you find every day.”

Lohse laughed. “ _Small_!”

Lovrik tried his luck observing Sandor, but the man was ashamed, or at least he looked so. Lovrik dismissed him immediately; that one had to be one of those prude religious men. Maybe a priest taking too seriously his own mission, even. A complete waste of time. Then, he looked at the well-known _Silver Claw_. How a thug with such reputation could not be interested in something like this?. He smiled at Ifan. “I imagine you find my proposition... appealing”.

“I do”. Ifan said.

Lohse raised her eyebrows, surprised as much as Sebille who looked at Ifan immediately, halting her needle along her fingers. The Lone Wolf was wearing a vulpine smile, ignoring Sandor across the table. With sad eyes, Sandor was expecting Ifan to look at him, to make a small contact with their eyes, to explain—with a small gesture—everything that was happening. Instead, Ifan kept smiling at Lovrik, like a predator, while listening the details of the service.

Sandor hunched his shoulders and focused on his stew, feeling a deep pain in his chest. Was Ifan truly doing this? Was he tired of that shy game they were playing? Or was that dark predatory creature that nestled in their souls what was taking control over him now?. He felt betrayed.

“My pleasure to serve, but one last question: what kind of flavour do you prefer, my friend?” Lovrik said.

“How many of them you have?”

“Two. One for each taste...”

“Mn, can I take both?”

Lovrik raised an eyebrow, and Lohse choked with a sip of wine. Forcing himself not to listen, Sandor stared at his cold stew without blinking; his face contorted in disbelief. Ifan was completely willingly to do this. It seemed that all what had happened between them had been just a game. A game like those that wolves liked to play; they get a target, hunt it down, and then, the lifeless body of their prey, becomes a silly toy until they are bored.

Sandor was between confused and hurt. How had he never seen this before? He remembered that time in the tavern, that bashful smile on Ifan's lips, his soft red colour on his cheeks, those warm green eyes. Nothing of those gestures were like the vulpine face that Ifan was wearing now in front of him. Had it been all a mere pretending to get a reward that he grew tired of waiting for so long?. Or that weakness that he confessed him days ago was graver than he had believed, and Rhalic had already taken over his body?.

“What?” Lohse said with a small laugh. “At the same time?”

Ifan finally placed his eyes in someone else, this time on Lohse, and shrugged at her, still ignoring Sandor, “my business”

Lohse laughed. “What a resilient man you are, Ifan”

Ifan grinned in response, all white pointed teeth in a rascal gesture.

“Very well, but you must pay me double then” Lovrik said, and before he could add anything else, Ifan threw a heavy bag with money on the table, in front of him.

Ifan moved his shoulder and neck, and his joints popped, “There you got your money.”

Lovrik took the bag with a happy disposition and slipped a key on the table towards Ifan, he bow before the whole table, and then left.

Ifan observed the key for a moment, took it, and looked around. He stood up and before leaving the table to taste his _dessert,_ he stopped besides Sandor and without looking at him in the eye, he whispered. “Midnight. At the Prophet's monument. Need to talk to you.”

“I don't think there is anything to talk....” Sandor had a knot in his throat. The stew he was observing was a symbol of his current mood: revolved, cold, and bittered.

“Please. I count on you. Bring two horses.” Ifan left the table and headed upstairs.

Sandor frowned. What the hell that bastard wanted after tasting his dessert?. He sighed and put away the stew, throwing the spoon into it. Part of the stew splashed the table, and the spoon fell on the ground.

An annoyed sigh and the sound of coins dragged his attention. Sebille was placing some coins on Lohse's hands. “This is unbelievable” she said.

“I'd told you. I can't believe you bet for him.”

Sandor crossed his arms on the table. “What is this all about?”

Lohse smiled at him and put the coins in her pocket. “A wager”.

“On?” He said with a sad tone.

“Commitment.”

Sandor sighed again, and hid his face in his arms. He was feeling as if a stone ball had hit him.

“But hey, Chief. Wager aside, I feel you”. Lohse added with a more serious tone. “I can't believe this. Ifan looks always so … devote to you.”

“And still yet you wagered against him?” Sebille added, amused.

“I know his type. Commitment is not their strong point. He can be as devote as he wants, but at the end of the day, no leash. Metaphorically speaking.” She looked aside, as if she were considering something else, then she whispered “I think he may be into leashes literally...”

“Forget it! I won't bet with you again!” Sebille moved her point finger in a negative gesture.

“Anyway” Lohse looked at Sandor “Did you reject him?.. or something happened between you two?.”

Sandor sighed resting his heavy body against the back of his chair, giving to her a defeated look and a shrug.

“Well, sorry for asking. You two were just like two lovebirds yesterday, trying to conceal something that none of you is good at, and now this... something happened, clearly.”

Sandor stood up. “Honestly. I don't know. And I'm not sure if I care...” he left the table and headed to their room. He was feeling terrible, and a long, deep sleep seemed to be the best remedy he could pick, considering the circumstances.

He lay into his bed, giving his back to Ifan's empty bed and tried to sleep. Hours passed by, and he was still awake, going over and rewinding the same scene in his mind. He still wanted to believe that there was a trick. He did not want to put his Ifan in the long list of deceivers he had found in his life. Not yet. Ifan could not be like those. _He could not._

Heartbroken, he left the room before Lohse and Sebille would go to sleep, and walked to the nearby stable of Driftwood. With the last coins he had, he bought two horses and headed to the West. The travel was calm, the night—full of stars—helped him to enjoy, at least, the chill breeze and the purple tone that moonlight spread on the landscape. Once he reached the meeting point, he knotted the horses leashes on a thin tree some meters away, hiding the animals from the plain sight, and he waited beside the monument, looking at the sea. The night was delightful, it was a shame that the recent events had tainted his mood to appreciate these little things fully.

After an hour, footsteps coming from the main path dragged his attention. He grabbed his staff and tensed every muscle of his body but his guard went down when he saw two lizards in ragged robes approaching. Sandor frowned.

A beautiful lizard looked at him with fear in her eyes. “Are you.... his contact?”

“The password” The other said, a slender lizard man. “You have to tell us his moon, and your moon.”

Sandor deepened his frown, and after a moment of silence, he pressed the bridge of his nose. “What the...?. Moons?”

“Oh Gods... he is not!” The female lizard screamed, hiding behind her companion.

“Please don't kill us...”

Sandor raised his eyebrows. “As If I had not enough for one night...” he muttered to himself, “what the hell all this means?”

“Do you know the moons?”

Sandor looked at both lizards several times, his eyes jumping from one to another, to finally put his staff on his back. “Care to explain?”

“He... He told us to ask you in which moon you were born, and his moon.”

Sandor blinked in shock. He sighed deep. What the hell Ifan wanted now?. Knowing this night was far from over, he folded his arms and spoke “Waxing moon, his. Mine is waning”

Both lizards relaxed at once. “Thank Zorl-Stissa,”

“This is for you” the lizard man gave him a key. The same key that Ifan got from the table. “Locked door in the second floor. It leads to a third floor. Lovrik always keeps us locked and isolated. Don't let them see you entering. He has a lot of guards in stealth. Chameleon spells.”

“And you were not seen?” Sandor said still looking at the key on his hand.

“He cast some scrolls of invisibility on us” the lizard man moved his hand in a circle.

“That man is a saint” The lizard woman added.

Sandor only rolled his eyes in silence. “Why I need this key?”

“You need to go there. They'll attack him at the morning, and he'll need help. He told us that you can fight.” The lizard woman added.

Sandor felt a sudden wave of pride. To imagine Ifan saying that he _needed_ his help, specially in a fight, was a delight. Certainly, that had lightened his heart a little bit. Just a bit.

“He told us you were going to get us some horses... and a map of Down Paradise.” The Lizard man said.

“Ow. The map, well... no. But I can give you mine.” Sandor took his map from the small bag hung from his belt. He could always get a new one the next day. “The horses are the ones hidden behind those trees... but... wait... what had just happened?”

The lizards looked at each other with a soft laugh. “We are escaping."

"Did Lovrik harm you?"

"No. It was Lohar. He made us slaves.”

Sandor opened his mouth slightly.

“But now we are free. Thanks to you, and to him. Please, protect him, he is going to have half of the dwarves threatening his life for messing with Lohar's business.” The lizard woman said pressing her hands on her chest.

“I... I'll do...” Sandor looked down for a moment. A warmth in his chest suffocated him.

“Thank you”.

The lizards took the horses and rode to the North-east, never looking back.

Sandor rubbed his face and sighed for the last time, observing the key in his hands. It had better not to be a joke.

 

Before stepping into the Black Bull tavern, Sandor cast a chameleon spell on himself and went upstairs. Without facing troubles, he entered into the room that led to a hidden third floor and closed the door with the key. He walked slowly in the dark room, barely illuminated by the moonlight entering through the window.

Midway, he stopped and surveyed the place. It was disgusting to see that kind of room. Luxury everywhere, a furniture with all types of alcohol on its surface and a closet with, probably, all the elements for a night of work. All the amenities for despicable business. He shook his head throwing away bad memories, and reached the bed, expecting to find Ifan sleeping. However, he barely could see any man. A sudden intense beam of light dazzled him, and in the following second, Sandor was on the floor, with a leg pressing his stomach and a cold blade against his throat while a powerful grip was pushing his shirt collar against his chest.

“It's me, it's me”. He said still blind.

Sandor was immediately released.

“Sandor?”. Opening wide his eyes, Ifan retreated immediately. “I'm... I'm sorry.”

After a loud sigh, Ifan stood and helped Sandor to do so, looking into his eyes whose pupils were still in shock. He cast a red light that accelerated Sandor's recovery. After a couple of blinks, the wizard could finally focus his eyes on his companion. Ifan smiled and patted Sandor's shoulder. He turned over his heels, and sat at the edge of the bed, a couple of steps away from where Sandor was standing. Ifan was not wearing his armour but a thin shirt and big loosen pants, but his hands were wrapped in his usual dark bandages. Behind him, on the bed, several pillows were piled up to emulate the shape of a lizard, covered by a blanket.

Sandor rubbed his eyes, still hurt due to the previous dazzle. “Um...They are fine. I've done what they told me. I only... need a new map, tomorrow.” he squinted his eyes and appreciated the man on the bed.

The strips of light coming from the windows and illuminating the bed, gave a strange shape to Ifan's figure. Half of his face was left in the darkness, while the other half, bathed in moonlight, highlighted his green eye and contracted pupil, while several long grey hairs were falling on his temple. He looked like a soldier enduring in silence the in-coming trial for having a flawed behaviour at war.

Ifan tensed his posture but did not move further. “Thank you. I was not sure if you got my clues.”

“I almost didn't...”

“I know, I'm sorry. I couldn't explain in the tavern, there were a lot of spies around us while Lovrik was talking to us”

Sandor stayed on his feet, a step away from Ifan, measuring his words while towering over the man sat on the edge of the bed. He could not stare him longer, and averted his eyes to the window. Driftwood landscape gave him a moment of respire to turn his face again to Ifan. They remained silent, fearing to break their fragile emotions with the next words. Sandor looked down, inspecting the only illuminated bare foot he could see. Ifan's ankle had a disgusting scar, healed long time ago. It was as if claws had perforated the skin and ripped it off. He was sure that the sinew had been damaged in the process. How Ifan could walk normally with such terrible scar?. He shook his head. It was not the time for those questions. “So... you... you are like this... right?. You....”

Ifan blushed, but it was barely noticeable under the pale moonlight. He looked down and shook his head. “I don't pay for... this... No. But I _do_ this. Look....” he patted the border of the bed, but Sandor did not accept. Instead, he dragged a stool, and sat with his back against the windows. It was an ominous position that allowed him to face Ifan under the shelter of the darkness on his own face, while exposing the Silver Claw mercilessly to the moonlight.

Ifan looked a bit hurt for the distance, but did not say anything. After a moment of silence, he looked at Sandor, at the shadows where his eyes should be. “You know I was raised among elves. I've seen thousands of times how they end as slaves in this business at hands of greedy lizards and humans.”

“I thought the lizards were the skilful ones”

Ifan looked down and smiled bitterly. “The rare skin of elves attracts curious assholes that are eager to pay... a lot.” Ifan blinked when he noticed that Sandor's figure shivered and hunched his shoulders in response. “Elves suffer a lot with this forced contact. Well, who wouldn't. But in their case, it taints their memories. They find themselves hard to be honoured afterwards.” Ifan closed a fist on his chest, wrinkling the fabric and gripping several of the medallions that were underneath. “I've started doing this just after I left my people to be part of the Order. The world showed me that cruelty extends far beyond elves... so, on this matter, I always get involved.” He snorted looking at the ground. “For some reason people assume I'm a great client of these services. Wherever I go I'm always invited to taste them. I've never bothered to explain myself. It's easy to spot the business this way. I pay their masters, I ask the workers in their room if they are forced into this. If they are slaves... well, you saw today how I handle it.”

“If they are not slaves?”

Ifan shrugged. “I ask them for useful information, rumours about some client whose secrets are worth knowing. I won't let my money be wasted like that, of course.” Sandor let a mistrustful silence fill the moment; Ifan raised an eyebrow. “Ah, no. I'm a proud man; on that matter at least. I only sleep with people who fancy me.” He snorted, “but well, nobody believes me when I say that. I guess I'm too old for them to think that I may be desired by someone else” he looked aside, blushing. “Anyway” he met Sandor's eyes. His green eyes were twinkling more intensely than before. Slowly, he leant in, extending his arm to reach Sandor's hand, and held it with both his hands; his voice turned into a whisper as his face softened with fear and shame. “We were in middle of building something. I hope this won't ruin the process to... um... keep on it?”

Taken aback, Sandor reacted a moment later, squeezing Ifan's hands. He felt reassured. Despite the demons in their head, their duties with Malady, and the events around them, Ifan had not changed. Ifan was still Ifan. The caring, powerful, gentle Ifan. Sandor got closer, looking for the man's lips and kissed him gently, a touch as delicate as a finger caressing a poppy recently bloomed.

Releasing Sandor's hand, Ifan reached Sandor's neck and shoulders, moving the shirt collar aside to expose that soft skin. From Sandor's lips, Ifan kissed his cheek and went down by his jaw to his neck, exploring the most sensitive places that made the wizard shiver.

“Ifan...” Sandor whispered.

Ifan's tongue played with Sandor's pronounced collar bone, and he wrapped his waist with his hands. Gently, Ifan helped Sandor to lift from the stool and slowly pushed him against the bed until both of them were on it. Sandor grunted, tension building up immediately under the lurking clear intentions of such manoeuvrer. His change of mood called Ifan's attention. He stopped playing in his neck and drew back a bit, looking at him. He cupped Sandor's face, fascinated with those sad brown eyes, moving his thumbs on his cheeks, and smiled. When Sandor smiled him back, and relaxed once again, he kissed him deeply. This time, Ifan sneaked a hand under Sandor's shirt, and that smooth skin made him carry away. He was infatuated, needy, desperate. His thoughts stopped to make sense of the situation, so he let his most primal instinct guide him. Lust and desire and emotions were deeply entangled in Ifan's soul, impossible to separate one from the another. He wanted to take everything from this man. He wanted to give everything for this man.

He let all his bodyweight emphasize how much he needed Sandor while he devoured his mouth. He grabbed Sandor's wrists sensually and put them over his head, biting his nipple over the clothes, pressing his body against him even more, letting everything escalate at an alarming rate. In middle of so much restrained pleasure, Ifan could perceive that something was odd. Sandor had become like a stone, tense and extremely quiet, and only a suffocated sound came from his throat, almost a... sob?.

Ifan frowned, opening his eyes. He had no time to react. Sandor's skin was full of source cracks, and as soon as he collected all the source that his body could contain, he blasted. Ifan could not dodge neither the source blast nor the shockwave, and was threw in the air. His back hit against a furniture some meters away.

“No, no, no, no!”. Sandor screamed, crawling back to a corner of the bed, shaking, embracing his own legs. He hid his face in his kneels and nailed his fingers in his own arms, tightly. Small lightings of source broke in the air around him, his skin still showing some cracks of source.

Ignoring Sandor's behaviour, Ifan groaned. He tried to move his legs immediately, but a sharp pain in middle of his spine prevented him. He tried to stand on his feet twice and fell on the ground. He waited a couple of seconds, taking his time to recover from the hit that had reverberated all along his back.

He forced a silly laugh tinged with pain, “Ugh...” Ifan sat on the ground, nailing his fingers in his small back and moving his shoulders painfully. “For the damned gods... believe me, I can take a simple _no_ ” He smiled, trying to make the mood lighter, expecting to see Sandor worried about him, source depleted. However, Ifan frowned when he heard the clear sound of sobs. Sandor was crying, shutdown, hiding his face and trembling. Ifan understood in that moment that such blast had not been simply an ill-timed event of Sandor's strange instability caused by the intensity of the moment. This was something else. Something else entirely.

He crawled to the bed and sat on its edge. He tried to reach out Sandor, touching his trembling back, but Sandor recoiled as if his touch were abrasive. Disconcerted, Ifan remained quiet, nailing his fingers in his small back waiting for the crisis to end by its own.

After a long moment, when the sobs stopped and Sandor's eyes peered over the border of his kneels, a hoarse and trembling voice echoed in the room. “Are you hurt?”

Ifan smiled at him, shaking his head, and then grimaced unwillingly. He wanted to let the pain pass a bit so he could walk at the entrance of the room where he had left his backpack with healing potions. He had to stop the swelling on his spine before getting nastier, but he did not want to leave Sandor alone in his own, secret tortured state of mind.

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so-”

Ifan's warm hand reached Sandor's back and stopped the repetition of the words. The wizard trembled, disgusted by the touch. He drew back again, and Ifan understood. Ifan showed him his palm in the air, and with a lot of pain, sat a bit more far away from Sandor.

“I don't know what's happening. But... um, let me tell you that you can count on me. Just tell me what to do.” Ifan looked at the door, hoping all that fuss would not bring unwanted attention, “But we are not in the best circumstances to talk calmly. If you think you can't handle a fight, leave now. I don't want to risk you.”

Sandor frowned a bit, rubbing his eyes to wipe out the tears. His hands could not stop shaking. Ifan's words were gentle and caring. He could perceive no aggression in them but truth. If he was not in a stable mental state, he was going to put at risk everyone in this fight. Honestly, Sandor wanted to leave, of course, but he remembered that Ifan _asked_ for his help because he was going to face a difficult fight. The lizards had shown deep worry for the retaliation. Sandor could not take the situation lightly.

He sighed, forcing his mind to push away all the memories that were twitching his guts, and reached the edge of the bed, placing his feet on the ground. He was still trembling, but he hardened. It was not the time nor the place for weaknesses. He swallowed his revulsion and looked at Ifan. He notice the man hunched. Something unusual in his proud demeanour.

“Turn over, give me your back, take you shirt off .”

Ifan nodded following the instructions, grunting in pain at the movement of his arms over his head. When Sandor was going to cast the healing spell on that bare back, he stopped, surprised by the sight. Illuminated by the moonlight, he could see a terribly mistreated back. Gross textures and ugly scars were spread everywhere. Long and short ones, some of them looking like an explosion of deformed bad healed skin. In middle of his back, he could see the prominent lump of the recent hit, pressing the vertebrae while the first signs of haematoma were seen. If it kept swelling, Ifan was going to lose his lower body sensibility for a couple of months. Bad for surviving.

“Um... sorry. I know it's a bit gross.” Ifan said shamefully after noticing that Sandor was staring at his scars, probably shocked by them.

“No. No.” Sandor cast his spell, cold hands pressing the lump. Ifan groaned in pain as the inflammation reduced slowly.

Once finished, Sandor left his trembling palms on that back, caressing with his thumbs while that book page that Ifan's back was kept telling him stories. So, so many scars. So much pain endured, so many mistakes and sacrifices made. Sandor closed his eyes and rested his forehead on that back. The movement tensed Ifan's muscles for a fraction of second but remained there, silent.

“I'm so sorry, Ifan.”

“Don't be. You've already healed it." He sneezed. "I'm anew. Well, as new as I can get at least.”

Sandor chuckled softly, parting from the back and giving Ifan enough space to wear his shirt again. “I'll fight. I... I'll be here.” Ifan turned toward Sandor and smiled. “Just don't ask me about this. Never...” Ifan's smile disappeared. He nodded in silence staring at the evasive face of that man, trying to peer his secrets in vain.

There was something too serious there. It was not hard for Ifan to come to his own conclusions. A wave of discouragement hit him. Having been put aside in the way Sandor did, hurt him but he had to trust him to decide when and how he could offer him his help.

Ifan sighed restraining his doubts. “Well. We need to sleep. They are going to attack at dawn. Their style is plain ambush. And probably it'll get a bit nastier when they see there are no lizards here.” He said stretching his arms and sneezing. The relief of his healed back drew a satisfying smile on his face. He turned around the bed and went into the sheets, giving his back to Sandor. “Sleep wherever you want. I'll wake you with the first sunbeams”.

“Why we have to stay? why don't we just leave?. Tomorrow, we are heading North .” Sandor said.

“I want these bastards dead. Leaving them alive only ensures more victims into this.”

Sandor looked around feeling a warm soft twitch in his chest. Several comfortable sofas were on the other side of the room but in comparison with Ifan's back in the bed, they seemed less appealing. He did not hesitated. He slid into the sheets too, and curled up against Ifan, and caressed his scars over the fabric of his tunic.

Ifan did not say anything but smiled in silence. And in that way, both fell asleep.

 

* * *

The place was dark, the ground was soaked with blood an covered with body parts. Blue candles flickered in her way to the throne. Black and red roses bloomed everywhere, and gross insects were flying around them. The air was full of a repulsive stench of some kind of demonic jasmine. Or maybe it was the natural smell of decay of those roses. Malady stopped, looked at the sky, searching for a place that escaped degradation, but she did not find it. The sky in that dimension was a windows to the Void, plane against plane, watching each other but not interacting. Such sight only inspired desperation. She removed her mask and magically changed it to fit her right side, that this time, covered her unblemished side. Her fingers caressed the demonic scars of her face. She hated that side, but it was powerful. The marks of her father and also the source of her immense power.

“Daddy issues for another day, Malady” she said to herself, straightened her posture and walked the last part of the path until stopping in front of the throne. She folded her arms. A demon with a disfigured face looked at her, smile with full pointed teeth.

“I was missing you, my dear” the echo of thousand of voices joined to utter the sentence.

Malady unfolded one of her arms and looked at her nails. “Well, maybe you need to indulge me into more gifts to come more often”.

The demon laughed, the whole plane shook with the gesture. “Did you finally accepted your nature and came to my Realm for guidance?”

“More like… I need a bit more of power, to keep on thinking about that… you know. That, and a bit of information.”

Silence.

“Why do you insist in that foolery?. It's a waste of time and energy. You should be using this power in destroying-”

“Pleeeease, spare me the lecture. We all know that you are the grumpy old papa and I'm your rebel teenage kid. We all get the idea. Just go to the point.”

“The more you ask, the more you will have to pay, later.”

“The more you talk, the more I get bored.” Malady said, looking aside. She hated to see directly that deformed face.

“You don't seem to ponder the true risks… Why so much effort just to obtain a weak piece in the big chessboard?. A Divine is nothing against what's coming. Instead, we should use it in our advantage”

“I'll gather some more pieces, don't sweat.”

“But child, my dear, evil child...”

“Do not _child_ me. Are you going to share your power with me or not?. I have to water my pretty flowers. I can't waste time.”

The demon laughed, his shapeless body shook as miasma spread in the room. “You are like your mother.”

“As if you had known her.” She said bitterly. Most probably, the demon could not even know who she was from thousands of women he had forced.

“You know you can't stop what's coming. How useless it is to just try. You could join forces with me, with your own kind, to strike when they are in their weakest.”

Malady rolled her eyes. “I can't grasp how you ended being such a powerful being and so… stupid.” She moved her hand in the air. “If the Child of Pandemonium awakes fully, if it even tries to look for its mother… there will be no safe realm or plane. Everything will be consumed in Chaos.”

The demon stared at her, silent. The dimension hummed. Then, his voice echoed in the Void of the sky. “We have our powerful allies”

“Mnhmn. The demonic child of a dead Divine?. The same one that was killed several times in different timelines?. That's your powerful ally?. Pleaseee.”

The creature snorted moving the mass that seemed to be his body, and suddenly, barked a laugh. “You know so few, my child”. The wicked smile lasted for a long moment. “Very well, I hope you are ready to pay the price”

“Mother already paid for hundreds of powerful gifts, but what I'm expecting from a creature like you. Go ahead. Get paid.”

The creature extended his deformed hand toward Malady, and a green beam coming from his palm hit her chest. She gasped and winced when something deep in her, something beloved, was ripped off from her. She did not want to let it escape, but no matter her effort, it slipped away as a tear ran along her cheek. A memory faded, lost forever from her mind. She could feel the warmth of a mother's embrace, her gentle patting on Malady's head. A smile. A scent. And then, everything disappeared. As it disappeared the beam.

“What you look for, my child, is in the Nameless Isle.”

Malady could feel her demonic power and desire grow a bit more. A thirst for pain and torture increased in her soul. Her sight started to become darker, and then, she fell into blackness.

 

* * *

“You, the fucked up Black Ring, and the cursed Order itself. This ends here! ”. Ifan yelled unleashing several blasts of source energy propagating to every direction through the tainted lands of the Bloodmoon Isle.

Sebille jumped behind Lohse, while the enchanter cast a powerful water shield covering both of them from the impact. Fane did the same with a shield made of earth, long enough to cover Sandor too, who was frozen at the sight of that savage energy emanating from Ifan. Everyone could only stare in surprise at the berserker state that controlled their companion.

The Advocate had just explained that the Deathfog detonation had set in motion the mechanism for the Godking to reclaim his Kingdom. It had only opened a small crack in the wall that separated the Void from their world's plane. In that moment, understanding the graveness of his past actions and the cruelty of Lucian, Ifan surrendered himself to his fury.

Ifan's eyes were glowing and a green mist emerged from them. His face was distorted into a snarl displaying his source-fangs. Those fangs had been a hard toll on his spirit for so long. Now, he was but a wounded wolf, too furious to think, too tired to be stopped with words. Too hurt.

He ran against the Advocate as several of his servants surrounded him. Source cracks that bore from where Ifan was standing, extended on the ground and gave pass to Afrit, who being summoned with the fury of his master had a complete different shape. There was nothing of that old shabby wolf in this creature made of pure wrath. Now, Afrit was a wolf with floating source-like fur, enormous claws, and red eyes. Fast as lightning, Afrit ran into the Advocate's servants and bite their necks, tearing apart each of their heads, consuming their lame source in the process.

The previous blast of energy and the desperate screams of the servants caught the attention of the Black Ring members that were around in the Isle. Suddenly surrounded, outnumbered by dozens, Sebille, Fane, Lohse, and Sandor formed a circle, giving their backs to each other, preparing to attack at the sight of the slightest movement. But they did not have time.

The earth shook violently. Trees fell and flesh flower buds exploded in blood. Unable to stay balanced, Fane and Sandor fell on the ground and then they saw how violent stakes made of stone emerged from the ground, hitting each of the Black Ring followers in a progressive wave that was getting closer to them. It was such a fast wave that did not distinguish friend from foe. Just in time, Lohse cast a powerful water shield around them that, even though it did not stop the stakes, it slowed them down, giving them time to move from the spot that was going to be pierced. It had been a close scrape.

Such display of uncontrollable power had been Ifan's doing. When the wave of stakes headed to another direction, everyone tried to spot their companion. Ifan had leaped to the Advocate, and tearing apart the lizard's flesh with his bare teeth, he finished to consume his source. Only then, the last wave of ground-spikes stopped completely. The Advocate's body, already purged, hung in a mess of guts from Ifan's hands. With glowing eyes, sometimes green sometimes red, the Lone Wolf stared at the new incoming groups of Black Ring supporters that were surrounding his friends. He dropped the corpse and cleaned his mouth, straining his beard in the process. Hunger and Hatred. He needed to fed those.

Ifan snarled, pointy source-fangs appearing under his lips as the ground trembled around him once more.

“Prepare to die”, Ifan said, raising his weapon while several floating crossbows made of source appeared at his back, all of them aiming to the Black Ring rows. It was just a blink of an eye that triggered everything. The Earth shook again, blood splattered everywhere, the metal and the source-made arrows turned into a rain that pierced all those wicked bodies. Screams echoed in despair and pain. The savage beast that Afrit had turned into, ran into the enemy rows, ripping apart what was left in physical and spiritual form. It was a feast of madness, source, and blood.

The sick trees trembled, and the small, suffering spirits that roamed in the isle were consumed in such maelstrom. Afrit howled morbid and cruel, same as his Master. Then, all the thunder and quakes stopped. No spirit or living creature remained, the only exceptions were Ifan and his companions. A lugubrious silence covered the land.

When the last bits of source were completely burnt, Ifan's eyes recovered their pupils, and Afrit disappeared as a paper consumed by fire. Ifan remained there, last man standing, with his crossbow falling slowly from his fingers to finally hit the ground. Everyone looked at him in fear, still casting the several shields that protected them from the hell he had summoned in a matter of seconds.

“ _Glechou dumar_ ” Ifan whispered as tears filled his unfocused eyes, and his source-depleted body finally gave in and fell on the ground.

 

Sandor ran to him, kneeling on the gore mess of viscera and blood that Ifan had fallen on, and inspected his vital signs. His pulse was there, slowly echoing in his neck. With the sleeve of his robe, Sandor cleaned the blood on Ifan's face and inspected carefully his chest looking for serious wounds. He found none.

“Well... that was... unexpected.” Fane said approaching them while looking around. He sighed in annoyance. The gore mess everywhere was quite fitting for the environment of Bloodmoon Isle. "Rhalic's style indeed".

“At least it's done.” Sebille said. She took a piece of flesh from the gore mess that the Advocate had turned into, and ate it, spitting it out a second later. There was no information in the flesh of purged ones. Then, she looked at Lohse, “Now we can go to tell the news to Jahan”.

Lohse nodded and then she knelt beside Sandor, placing a hand on Ifan's chest. She cast a recovery spell on him, a strong one that she used to use against fatigue during her long performances. She looked at Ifan, ensuring he was still breathing. It was easy for all of them to think him dead. The usual amount of source that each sourcerer could perceive in another, was completely extinguished in him. Ifan had consumed everything and burnt it into ashes.

“He'll be okay.” Lohse said with a smile, reassuring Sandor.

“Now that this is over” Sandor said looking at the mess that had been left in the Advocate's place. “Fane,” the skeleton looked at him, “explore the archive of the isle, bring to the Lady Vengeance anything that may be of interest about the Godking, the black mirror, and possessions in general.” Fane nodded and left right away. “Lohse, Sebille, carry the news of this... mess to Jahan. He will be... pleased.”

“Yes, Chief” Lohse saluted and left with Sebille.

“I'll carry Ifan to the Lady Vengeance.” He looked at the bloody depleted body in the ground, and wondered how he was going to carry such amount of weight on his back. Well, some dents would not make a lot of difference in the Wayfarer's body at this point.

He sighed loudly, giving to himself a long moment of silence once everyone left the bloodshed scene. Sandor looked with sadness at Ifan, remembering his words in the Stonegarden and rubbed his face with a hand. This was a bad omen. A terrible omen indeed.

 


	6. Chapter 6

She fell on her kneels with only enough energy to cast the entrance of her small dimension. It was a garden, green and full of flowers. Source butterflies were flying everywhere, giving to the colourful scenery a touch of life and movement. Panting, Malady crawled to the centre of this garden, where an elven woman was resting. Her arms were on her stomach and her hair floated as if she were submerged into water. She had the pale tone of death, but her face suggested a summer nap trance. Her lips were dry, cracked, and sometimes a tear rode down the corner of her eyes. Ephemeral, peaceful, quiet. Beside the elf there was a plaque which had old and new lines written.

_Do not trust demons. Never_

_This woman was important to you despite the oblivion._

_You are not cruel by nature._

_You need to destroy the pandemonium, at any cost. These lines are part of what you have paid._

Malady read the lines, and some scraps of memory seemed to reach her. She took off her cape, threw her mask aside, and spiked her spear in the ground. She knelt beside the woman and rested her head in that cold chest, caressing those hands of bark skin. She did not know why she did it, but the gesture calmed her immediately.

 

* * *

Ifan awoke suddenly, feeling his body dirty. His mouth tasted to blood while small flashes of what had happened before fainting surfaced on his mind. He sighed in relief when he remembered seeing his companions that, despite the terror in their eyes, were safe and sound. Relaxed by that scrap of memory, he focused his eyes on the ceiling. He recognized it immediately. It was Lady Vengeance's. Ah, he was in his hammock in the middle deck. He lifted his body, but vertigo made him almost fall again. He took his time to get up.

He sneezed, feeling that particular astringent odour in his nostrils; an artificial, almost abrasive scent that kept harming his smell sense. He sniffed his arms confirming his suspicion; he had been cleaned with water spells. He wrinkled his nose after sneezing several times. He hated the scent left by that particular magic. Without delay, and struggling a bit against his vertigo, he walked to the corner of the deck where a bathtub was hidden behind a folding screen. He needed a real bath.

When he returned to his hammock, with light casual clothes and his hair dripping water, he found Sebille sitting on it, legs pushing the floor to keep her in permanent movement while playing with two apples in her hands. She looked at him with a broad mischievous cat-like smile. “Ah, there you are. You take your time for a bath.”

He groaned stretching his arms as he approached her. He immediately took a pair of bandages that were on the stool close to his hammock and wrapped his wrists with them. He always felt naked without them. “How long I've been sleeping?”

“Four decades.” Ifan stopped the wrapping and looked at her in a sudden movement, opened wide his eyes. Sebille laughed. “I just wanted to see that face. Just four days.”

With a relieved sigh and a twitch on his mouth, Ifan resumed his bandage. “Funny. Still yet too much time. What happened after I passed out?”

Sebille threw an apple to Ifan, who caught it in the air with one confident hand. He observed the fruit and his stomach rumbled violently. Four days were too many days for a human body. He bit the apple. “Thank you”.

“My pleasure” Sebille kept eating her apple and moving the hammock with her long legs. “Let me see. After your marvellous display of power, I went with Lohse to tell Jahan the news. Sadly, he couldn't help her. We still got our dear companion with nasty guests in her head. Fane has been talking all this time about the technology of Eternals and some other rubbish that bores me. Um.... Malady has been rather busy. I didn't see her in a while.”

Ifan kept looking at her, still eating, but Sebille did not continued. The long silence only draw an amused smile in her face while Ifan raised an eyebrow.

“Come on. Say it... you are dying to know what your _Vhenan_ has been doing...”

Ifan frowned. “ _Vhe... Vhenan_?” he blushed a bit and focused on the apple. He had not thought about it, but he liked it. The endearing word that elves gave only to their most beloved ones; it was fitting. Absolutely fitting no matter how much effort he would put in denying it. “Well? What happened to him?” He said trying to conceal the smile that the elven word had put on his face, failing horribly at it.

“He is shut in with Fane in the lower deck, reading all those books and doing things with the black mirror.”

“We still have that blasted thing in the ship?”

“We have two, in fact. Fane could replicate it...” Ifan's horror face did not match Sebille's shrug full of apathy. “It's not working yet, so fret not.”

They ended their apples in silence.

 

 

He went down deck and entered to Dallis' former cabin. It had been changed to become a studio. He found Sandor alone sat in the main table, piles of books spread all over the floor and chairs. At a corner of the studio, the black mirror was dormant, emanating its purple miasma. At its feet, there was another mirror with the same characteristics. He focused on Sandor's back, shaking his head in disapproval. Never, but never, one had to give their back to the main entrance of any place. Survival rule number one. But what did that clumsy wizard know about survival?. The most dangerous thing in his academy life must have been a paper-cut.

Ifan walked slowly, approaching him. He was going to reach his shoulder, but he realised that the man was not resting his face on his hands while reading; instead, he had fallen asleep in a perfect balanced position. Ifan smiled. Carefully, he poked Sandor's nose. The wizard started to react to finally sneeze. Surprised, he looked at Ifan and with sleepy eyes, he smiled at him.

“You're awake. How are you feeling?”. He said covering his mouth with a hand and yawning.

Ifan nodded. “Tired. But fine.” he moved a chair close to the table.

Sandor rubbed his face, small tears hanging from the corner of his eyes. “I was starting to get worried, you've been sleeping a lot.”

Ifan nodded again. He knew it. He could feel in every fibre of his muscles the source ashes, the usual residual soreness that comes after burning source suddenly and violently. An uncomfortable silence filled the air. Both of them were just remembering the destructive source of Ifan in the Bloodmoon Isle. A deep feeling of shame nestled in Ifan's chest; his face was lowered, observing some far away point in the table. Sandor reached Ifan's hand, and placed it on the table, leaving his own on it. Ifan smiled sadly.

“I'm sorry”. Ifan finally said. "I'm... I'm weak. This thing... is winning". The last memory before everything went black had been the look of terror in his companions. Those brown open wide eyes of Sandor's, full of fear and disbelief.

“You, you are just tired. It's alright. Fane found several Vaults in the isle, ancient cages to lock up possessed creatures. Their fury and desires were contaminating the isle's atmosphere. Jahan told us that the whole island was under demonic influences and corruption. They may have affected you.”

Ifan raised an eyebrow. “Lohse could control herself in that place, but I lost my mind?. The irony.”.

“Practice?” Sandor shrugged, then smiled but the gesture never reached his eyes. “Don’t be hard on you.”

Ifan sighed loudly, and looked down letting the idea aside. He was not convinced about that explanation. It had nothing to do with demons whispering in his ears, but the sudden control that that thing inside him acquired, removing his will, feeding his rage with an imperious need to destroy any rival. This was his fault, he was weaker when anger filled his chest. He looked up at Sandor in the eyes, and a morbid image of his corpse flickered in his mind. A ring. Bones. A mirror.

_This is competition. You and only you must control that power._

He pressed the bridge of his nose. “Demon influence, eh?. Well. I hope so. I hope so”. He repeated unconvinced. A shadow at the entrance of the chamber caught his attention, recognizing Fane's figure coming in. Ifan moved away his hand, leaving Sandor's, and straightened his posture in the chair by folding his arms.

Approaching Sandor, Fane looked at Ifan with surprise. “I see you're recovered. Are you feeling fine? No tiny voices telling you to eat people alive?.”

Ifan frowned confused, but then, flashes of the battle came to his mind. He blinked surprised. Yes. He had mimicked with fury and frustration the ancient elven ways of honouring, but it had been less about honouring and more about anger and revenge taking twisted forms in his tortured mind at that moment.

“Fane”. Sandor looked at the skeleton. “He has just awoken, give him a break”.

“No need. I'm... fine”. Ifan's voice faltered.

“Anyway”. Fane inclined his skull to make obvious his focus on Sandor. “I need the book of demonic incantations you were reading yesterday. Where is it?”.

Sandor pointed out a purple book at the end of the table. Fane exclaimed something about lack of proper order among mortals, took the book, and left closing the door.

“Where were we?” Sandor said.

“In what's the next steps”

Sandor looked at Ifan with a twitch in his lip. He knew the man was avoiding to talk further on what had happened in the Bloodmoon Island. And he accepted it, so he did not insisted. “Very well, Divinity. Malady said that the Academy is placed somewhere called the Nameless Isle.”

“Who would have imagined.”

Sandor smiled. “But I told her not to rush into it. We still need to learn more about source and have more training and-” he looked at the corner of the enormous chamber, where the mirrors were placed, “-there are some things worth researching, they will become key in the future.”

“Or another headache”

Sandor turned his head and looked at him, silent, raising an eyebrow. Ifan did not backed and kept the eye contact for a long time.

“I know you don't like it. But we are not going to stop just for that. The mirror is safe so far.”

Ifan's eyebrows shoot up, and then he looked down. He was not going to add anything on the matter. He knew what Sandor thought about it, and Sandor knew his own opinions on the matter. They were going to disagree forever about those blasted mirrors.

“Changing topics..." Sandor's voice went lower and softer, "I wanted to talk with you, Ifan.” the Wayfarer looked at him again, kind calm green eyes observing him. Sandor turned over to see behind him, checking if the door was still closed, and then, he placed his folded hands on the table. “We are almost there. In the final stage. We just need to go to that isle...and...” he looked down.

They knew it. The chances of surviving were lower every day.

“I just.. I want… I'm. Um.” Sandor sighed digging his fingers in his arms. “We are going to fight for Divinity. All of us. Maybe even against each other.”

New gory images filled Ifan's mind in a rushed progression of scenes. A sudden attack, his own knife stabbing Sandor's back, his source fangs sucking the last remnants of Sandor's energy, Rhalic's voice claiming the end of competition, the bloody mess that Sandor's body turned into afterwards, the way his inner wolf was fed with every friend he was betraying, his desire for Divinity itself. He closed his eyes tightly.

“...everything may go wrong now. And... I don't want to leave without saying... things… You have turned into... a real important person in my life. Maybe... the only one.” Sandor continued.

Ifan focused on him, on those taciturn brown eyes. “I understand.” Though, the image of Sandor's corpse—too vivid in his mind—was darkening his mind. This was a goodbye. Goodbye to something that had not started yet.

“My life has been…” Sandor looked down, taking more time than it was necessary, “...solitary. Never had many people to count on.” He frowned. “I'm not sure if I ever had...” he looked up, meeting Ifan's eyes. “I don't know how not to make this look like an extortion to guarantee my future Divinity” both of them chuckled “…. But… the truth is… you changed that. You changed _me_. Thank you. And I...”

Ifan smiled, letting the warm gesture reach his eyes, make them bright a little bit. _Vehnan._ Ifan pressed Sandor's lips with his fingers, stopping the terrible words of a goodbye. “Dear one. We will make it. Divine or not.” Ifan placed his hands on the table, palms up, waiting for Sandor's hands.

Releasing his mistreated arms, Sandor accepted the invitation, and trembling, held those hands. Both remained in silence, enjoying the intimacy of the moment. There were still many, many unspoken things. Fragile things. Things that were hard to share yet. They were quite aware of it. But sometimes, to say something which had not enough shape to stand by its own could destroy it.

Besides, to have unspoken things, to know that there were unfinished matters that needed a completion, could be the only motivation not to give up at the last moment with the last bit of energy. Perhaps that was going to be the vital key in their future fight. Knowing it or not, both of them simply remained silent.

 

* * *

“Oh, my baby” Tarquin whispered. The necromancer had in his arms a long pale sword. A myth turned into tangible matter thanks to his prodigious skills. 

Fane looked at him with some disbelief. "And this is what you, mortals, have to offer?"

“Mn. What a beautiful toy you have there” Malady said, crossing her arms on her chest, never averting her eyes from the glowing sword.

“And this is just the beginning.” Tarquin extended the object to Sandor, lowering his chin a little bit to simulate a bow and make the process more sublime.

“So. Can this destroy Braccus Rex?” Sandor said accepting the sword and measuring its weight in his arms.

“Oh, more than that. It can extinguish him from every plane of existence. The myth says it was crafted with a rare essence. Nadaer's essence.”

Sandor's eyes brightened with curiosity. “What's that?. I've never heard of it.”

Tarquin twisted a smile, a gesture of those who value the power of information. Maybe inspired by a tacit scholar competition or simply condescension nestling in his heart, Fane observed him with detail, a gesture easy to notice in his source-eyes, completely steady when it was focused on something.

“Oh, my friend. You didn't." Tarquin kept looking from Sandor to Fane, tasting the supremacy of his knowledge. "The Nadaer are completely unknown in this dimension.”

Malady frowned, her eyes locked on the necromancer. “And how do you know about them?”

“I've performed many interesting challenges in my life. One of them brought me to a lost dimension, disconnected of time itself. It was an imp universe, as you may guess correctly, with machines fumbling in endless calculations. I could access to its wonderful library, and I've read about many things. Even they gave me a book or two. Or did I borrow them indefinitely?. Ah, irrelevant details.”

“They are almost extinguish in every plane” Malady added.

“Thanks the Divine. Or the Voidwoken for this matter” Tarquin said with a dangerous smile, “however, as you said, _almost_. There is one dimension in which they remain, or so the myth goes." Tarquin shrugged "But that's hard to believe. If they were alive, they would have destroyed all the worlds by now. Unless they were restrained, or dormant.”

Malady jaw tensed.

“Are they worse than the Godking?” Sandor asked.

Tarquin kept silent, enjoying the dramatic pause as he tapped his own chin. “They are made of what the Godking is, but uncorrupted, unchanged. They just consume everything leaving a particular kind of chaos, the one born from emptiness. The Godking at least leaves undead and a slave society behind him.” Tarquin went to a corner of Dallis' chamber and took an old book. It had brittle pages and smelled to centuries. A purplish emanation surrounded it as a result of a dark spell to preserve it. “Here. It's said that one of them, one called the Queen of Entropy, reached our world long time ago. 32000 AR approximately.”

Everyone except Malady was shocked at the date. “See." Tarquin pointed out a passage. Sandor approached to read it by himself, but the language was impossible to understand. Tarquin translated it aloud "Empress Anatelle, from the same linage that the Emperor Sigurd. She was a powerful mage and curious by nature, meddling with powers beyond her ken. As usual. Blah blah. She was also a demon lover, and this gave her some privileges such as free passage to certain unknown dimensions. Lucky her. This book explains that in one of those strange planes of existence, at the edge of the space and time, she communed with the vast nothingness that the Lady of Entropy was, and taken aback for all that power that could consume everything, Anatelle ate the Lady in an attempt to take her over. I know, I know. It's a bit drastic. Of course, the Empress Anatelle became insane—you can't have an entity of nothingness in your own body—so a disaster war took place, erasing most of the races of that time, and sadness and famine, and blah blah. After that, the Lady of Entropy's husband, tortured by the solitude, created the Eternals.”

“What's this nonsense!” Fane said, indignation infused in his voice. He moved his bony hand in violent gestures.

“Feeling itchy for being crafted by someone else? Welcome to the club” Lohse laughed softly.

Tarquin closed the book with all the care of the world, and wrapped it in an enchanted fabric to preserve it better. He always moved extremely careful with magical objects. “The devastation after that war was so terrible that no records are kept, and only this fragment of history remains because it was preserved in a timeless dimension crafted by Xaxig, the rebel imp.” Tarquin lifted the book to everyone. That was all the proof they had.

“Can we trust in that?” Sandor asked. “Books from another planes are related to different timelines. Each plane ends having their own history.”

“It's a possibility." Tarquin placed the book in the shelf, then he turned over, displaying his wicked smile."But if you think that before our time all the planes were one....”

“Well, let's focus on what matters” Sebille said, looking at Anathema still in Sandor's arms. “This will put an end to Braccus Rex, that's all we need to know.”

“My dear Tarquin, how goes the Black mirror?” Malady walked to the corner of the chamber, observing in detail the original mirror and the replica on the ground. Both of them were emanating a disgusting dark purple miasma.

“Hard work with no results, my'lady. Specially for me.” He looked at his hand, still feeling those aggressive dark tendrils that used to appear on the mirror surface and attacked him.

Malady looked at Fane first and then to Sandor, both of them nodded in silence.

“However, I've been working on this marvel” Tarquin invited them to get closer to his personal table, and showed them two pyramids with strange symbols on them. “They are still in testing phase, but I believe I can increase their potential”

Ifan looked at those object which were emanating a soft miasma too. It gave him goosebumps . “Is that the same material which the black mirror is made of?” Ifan's eyes widened and his frown deepened.

“Indeed. What a good observer you are. They are not totally functional if you want to know.”

“Why to work on these instead of the mirror?” Sandor left the sword on a table, took one of those pyramid, and turned it around in his hands. He cast something over it, and the crystal reacted softly.

“I don't think the mirrors are going to be useful for transport. We barely could replicate one, and it's not even transmitting the image of the other. I prefer to use my time in something that has a chance of being functional. And being less aggressive to me."

Sandor crossed his hands, frown at Tarquin. The man raised his hands and draw a full grin that was everything but genuine. “I know, I know what you said. But I disagree. That's why I kept working on this. You will thank me eventually” Tarquin winked at him.

Sandor made a sulky expression. Isolated of that mundane conversation, Fane remained taciturn, observing that mysterious book on the shelf, which was still emanating miasma.

 

* * *

And here he was, as usual. Looking for the loneliest place in the wild to be lost in his own thoughts, while something inside him grew day after day.

A week ago they had explored the Black Pit. The damned place, infected with dwarven spirits and Voidowken, was the refuge of a Royal scientist of the Queen: Zanisima. She had cast light on some of the darkest events in Ifan's life: the device he had been sent to deliver to the elves during the war had never been a portal to save their lives, but a Deathfog detonator.

As a spike piercing his guts urging to look for healing before too much blood loss, the need to understand why an engineer under Lucian's command would twist the Divine's will made him mad and unremitting in his search for answers during several days. Restlessly, he tracked down Hannag in the Cloisterwood, fighting her to punish her felony and to obtain answers. But the truth only acquired another layer of perversion. The device had never been a malicious twist of Hannag's crafts, it had been Lucian's all along. The realization that Ifan had always been a disposable pawn sent to decimate elves blinded him with fury. Giving in to the monster inside his head, consuming his soul, he attacked and wounded Hannag, but, thankfully, Sandor stopped him from killing her. Those sad brown eyes made the inner storm of his soul diminish a little bit and made it manageable for once.

That break in his trance had only brought more misery. He became conscious that something was eroding his ability to think, to stop himself, to see the landscape at his front beyond the concept of revenge. His world was becoming a narrowed window strained in blood. But Sandor... Sandor's hand on his forearm had stopped everything at that time. And despite hating it in that moment, now—cooled down and with a clear mind—he thanked him. The lizard had only done her duty, as he had done his during his time in the Order; everyone had been a mere piece in Lucian's great game.

Defeated by the truth, Ifan had let Sandor embrace him, washing away a little bit of so much dirt that he accumulated in his soul. He asked Sandor to return to the Lady Vengeance by himself; he need time alone to process his raw emotions. And Sandor, gentle creature, simply had nodded without complaints and had left him to do so.

Sunk in thoughts, Ifan had been roaming aimlessly the Reaper's Coast, reaching the far North, where he had fought a beast tainted by void. The fight made him earn a wound, too distracted by his own thoughts, but nothing serious that a bit of time and a bandage could not solve. In fact, a bit of pain was a good way to keep focused. It was, after all, a bad habit he always kept.

He had explorer the zone, reaching to the highest point of the cliff, and from there, delighted by the poetic landscape, he set his camp. From this point he could appreciate the sea, the Bloodmoon Isle, and the broad extension of Deathfog; the remnants of the sin that was perpetrated river above, where the bombs had been detonated. Sea, rivers, and lands. Everything was consumed by Lucian.

Afrit appeared at his side, pushing Ifan's hand with his snout in a convincing attempt to ask for caresses. Of course the Wayfarer could not deny his companion a bit of affection that maybe, he also needed. He prepared a campfire and spent the following nights in the open.

The last night, from the shadows of the bushes, a pale figure appeared. It walked tumbling, without apparent direction, and approached the fire. It remained still, observing the flames.

Ifan scrutinized the creature. It was an elf, young and tall, with her face disfigured with the mark of Silence. Her eyes were blank, dark circles under them that highlighted her cheekbones, her lips were stitched. He reached his crossbow and remained tensed, waiting for the creature to attack, but it just stood there, in front of the fire, hypnotized by its cracking sound and warmth.

After some minutes, Ifan relaxed, retreating to his place in front of the fire but never completely sure that the creature would remain civil. He could have killed her at the spot, but something familiar in that elf was telling him he had to wait.

“What do you need?” Ifan asked in vain. The creature remained unchanged. “You like fire.” He whispered. The elf was completely lost in the contemplation of the flames, or maybe it was just the meaning that Ifan wanted to give to it. It was a natural need to see a Silent Monk and wish that, under all those marks, the person that she had been before could find a way to remain unchangeable. It was just a silly hope, a mere illusion of a potential reversion from such cruel state. The truth, though, was that the creature was lost, no matter what it would contemplate.

Maybe the elf was considering the means to destroy its monstrous existence. Elves always knew that fire was a great danger to them. Maybe she was considering to threw herself to the flames. Or she was remembering something that was confused with the warmth emanated by the fire. Maybe a bed during winter. Maybe a lover's arms. Maybe a child's embrace. There were so many warm things that could carve a mind in a world so cruel like this. Of course those emotions would mark deeply a person's life, and would confuse their tortured mind when turned into a Silent Monk, unable to distinguish anything but their master's orders.

The thought made him shiver. What a sad, sad fate.

Ifan wondered about the image at his front, always aware of its movements. Was this form better or worse than death?. Death was an absolute condition, no way to revert it, but this... Was it reversible?. What if it were?. The doubt grew and caressed the memories of his past. Could it have been better to let his people alive in this sad condition instead of being completely removed from the existence by the Deathfog?. That elf was so unresponsive, but it was still alive. That fact hurt him.

He sighed. Why he was even considering this perversion as an option?. Maybe he had spent too many days in the open.

He remembered Mother Melati, her smile, some times impish, some times playful. He could also remember her hardened arms, bark skin around his tiny body trembling in middle of the night when the nightmares had no stop and darkness covered every corner of his lonely world. He could heard once again, in his memory, her calm voice. Or what he thought it was her voice. He smiled in pain. He had forgotten her voice.

“Mom.” he whispered.

The elf turned at him, blank eyes seeing through him. _Yes_ , he thought. This elf was looking for a child. Her child. He could feel it.

He stood up and walked at her, an unsheathed dagger at his hand. He placed his palm on the elf's shoulder. “I can make it stop. I will find who can honour you. I promise.”

The elf remained still, but Ifan could feel some degree of acceptance in this fate. And more than that: gratitude. He moved his dagger fast and clean into the elven chest, and that creature died. He amputated the elven hand and wrapped it in leaves, just like he had learnt since he was a child. He would carry it to Saheila later. The rest of the body would burnt, too tainted to be useful for the soil.

Maybe Ifan was too sensitive with all what was happening around him; the thought returned to him once again. Was better to have lost everyone to the Deathfog, without the chance to honour, to recover the small strips of memories that may live on in their flesh a little bit after death? Was this fate more merciful? What if that elf he had just killed could have been saved later?. Could it be possible?. He was not a scholar to know it.

Selfish, a bit tortured by his own mind, he needed some answers. He cast a small portion of source in his soul and opened his source-eyes, to see the spirits. And there she was, the elf, still watching her body burn. She looked at him, now more vivid than before. He was scared of her reaction. She observed the sea, the long extension of Deathfog, and a chorus in elven language filled the air softly.

He did not talk, afraid of many things, afraid of breaking the moment, afraid of her rage.

“You, child of the cruel ones, be true to your promise.” Ifan nodded in silence. “This is all… this is all….”

She disappeared.

He did not get answers. To know if this was more merciful that what had happened to his people was impossible to measure. More than that, it was disrespectful.

He rubbed his face as Afrit did the same with his snout against Ifan's legs. His mind was a mess. The world was falling apart. The misery was present in every corner as his demonic personal voice kept whispering him madness every time he surrendered to the anger. He sighed deciding that he needed a hint. A strong one.

 

* * *

A pair of daggers fell on the sand. Panting, with Sebille's knife on his own throat, Sandor knelt, defeated. Sebille laughed. Not even the change of clothes had guaranteed him a good performance. 

They had been training the whole day, in a vain attempt to make Sandor a bit more useful in a fight when his magic was depleted. Usually his thick layered robe was always getting in the way, so he had wagered on a better result with a simple shirt and trousers. But nothing changed. Maybe it was his weapon of choice, a pair of daggers he had no idea how to wield. He had come to a conclusion that it was not a matter of practice, it was simply his lack of talent for short range combat.

Tired, Sandor sat on the sand and lay on it, looking at the blue sky. He also could see Sebille, twisting her mouth while placing the point of her knife against her chin, thinking. There was still something else to try before giving up.

“Wait for me here.” She said.

She went to Driftwood, down into the Undertavern, and looked for Zaleskar. The man was going to stay a couple of days in town. She explained to the man what she was looking for and for whom. With a grin on his skull, Zaleskar gave her exactly what she needed. An hour later, she returned to the beach, watching Sandor to work out some basic movements to give his body agility.

“Try these”. She threw at the sand a circular weapon. It had curved protectors on its blades, and both pieces were stuck to remain as a whole circle. The weapon emanated a soft glow of source, suggesting that it was not a common weapon but an enchanted one. A source-weapon.

Sandor took it and looked at it curious. “What's this?” he tried to remove the protectors but the weapon slipped from his hands.

“It's a rare weapon called chakram. This is an enchanted one, so it can fly like a boomerang. I remembered a mage that I killed years ago. He was not particularly skilful in body combat but this weapon turned him into a real challenge. Let me show you”

Sebille took the weapon and pressed a spot in the middle, a hollow crack parted the circle into two semicircles, each of ones with a sudden handle made of source. She removed the curved protectors over the blades and the intensity of the source increased, her movements with the weapons left a source-wake in the air. Beyond the visual beauty of the blades, they seemed to work like curved daggers.

She threw them at the closest bushes around; they flew at high speed and spun destroying the branches that crossed their path. After some meters, they returned to her, following back the glowing wake that they had left in the air, and firmly stopped at her hands.

“That's impressive” Sandor said.

“Your turn”. She took the protectors and placed them on the blades again. Then, she extended the weapon to Sandor. “Keep them. Until you know how to grab them without losing your fingers”

A chill crossed Sandor's back “Right....”.

He imitated Sebille's movements, and destroyed several bushes too, but the weapon always returned to him to hit his wrists or chest. He tried many times until getting used to them and finally challenged Sebille. Now the combat was more dynamical. And defeat after defeat, Sebille was needing more time to reduce him. Maybe he was improving. Maybe it was only Sebille's tiredness wearing her down. It was hard to say, but it gave Sandor the illusion of progress, enough to keep him motivated.

After some hours, Sandor fell on his back on the sand, with a big smile in his face. “This is working!”

Sebille smiled as well. The wizard was so clumsy on body combat. His current condition would only win over a child. But she did not break it to him. Certainly, he was better with this weapon than with daggers.

“Congratulations, little rogue. It's all for today.”

Sandor stood up and cast cleansing spells on him, removing any sweat or dirt from him and his clothing. “Thank you” he said, observing that Sebille was as clean as she was when they started the training in the afternoon. Certainly, he was not a challenge for her.

She nodded and stepped to the Lady Vengeance's direction, but halted amid, as if she remembered something suddenly. “Ah, I almost forgot. The fool is in Effie's. He looked like someone who had been all these days just smoking.”

Sandor blinked, at first in confusion “Are you sure? He told me he was going to be in the wild. Thinking.”

“I am sure. It's hard to confuse that man with someone else, specially when he is walking with a sway to a lonely room. Go put some sense in his head. He's probably a mess.”

“Why did you not tell me this before?”

“We had to train. Besides, one pipe more or less won't change his state. Now go.”

Sebille turned over and headed to the ship.

Sandor looked down at his clothes. Without his thick layered robe he felt naked, but he shrugged at his simple shirt and trousers. It had to be that way, he did not want to return to the ship for a change. He sighed deeply, encouraging himself to start the path to the Undertavern.

 

He knocked several times at the private room, but there were no answers. Looking around to detect any potential witnesses, Sandor took his lockpicking kit, forced the lock and entered.

The first thing he did was to cough. The room was full of a thick and sweet mist of smoke. He lifted his palms, and some cracks of lightning jumped from one to another; a fresh breeze born from his fingers cleaned the whole room.

He saw a man lay on carpets on the ground, his arms over his eyes, denying to see or to be seen. Ifan was not wearing his armour, but the light clothes he used under it. His steel bracers were removed too, but he kept the thick bandage, as usual. The cape and the mail shirt were on a chair aside his crossbow which was resting against the wall.

Sandor knelt besides him and caressed his forearm slightly. The touch was enough for Ifan to jump from his place, and grab Sandor's arm violently. The movement startled Sandor, whose skin displayed some source cracks due to the surprise but it never went out of control. In another moment of his life, he would have blasted.

“Ifan, it's me... it's me.”

The grip disappeared with the whispered words. The man sat in a more relaxed way, and rubbed his eyes, observing Sandor with surprise. His eyes were red and a bit swollen. Maybe as a result of so much drudanae during the last days; maybe it was the infinite sadness that he cried out in the solitude of this hidden room.

Ifan took a long moment to recognize the man at his front, and sighed in defeat. He returned to the ground, giving his back to Sandor. “I don't want you to see me like this.”

“I thought you were in the wild.”

“I am...”

Sandor sighed, his shoulders hunched a bit. He understood. Ifan had been convinced that he had followed honourable orders, long time ago, that tragically ended in the disaster that was tainting the Northern lands. To know that nothing of that had been a mere accident but the result of deeply calculated strategy, had destroyed him. Every wrong and right decision he had taken after the Deathfog detonation acquired a new yet bitterer dimension.

Sandor looked at that back remembering how scarred it was. The elves, the Deathfog, the Order, the duty, the Lone Wolves, Roost, his companions, Das Vapour, the device, Hannag. How to help. How to reach when the devastation was so broad and deep. How to heal.

He closed his fist with intensity as water dripped from them. His hands glowed in a gentle cold blue, and then, water drops started to float around.

He pressed his palms on that back that suddenly recoiled, surprised at the chill touch over the shirt, and then, it relaxed. It was a healing spell to clear his mind, to reduce the inflammation of his eyes, to clean his intoxicated body.

“No need. I'm not wounded.” Ifan said.

But Sandor continued applying that spell in silence, pretending that something of his arcane power could reach further, ignoring that the man had wounds that magic could never heal.

Ifan turned over again and looked at Sandor; now his eyes were normal, and his look, despite being tired and sad, was more focused. For a moment Sandor thought that Ifan would scold him for making the effect of drudanae disappear, but he remained there, staring at him in silence.

“I'm here for you, Ifan. Don't fall.”

Ifan lifted his torso a bit and cupped Sandor's cheek. He observed that face, sometimes staring a long moment at the lips, just to return to those sad brown eyes. Unable to find a way to stop Ifan's inner pain, Sandor closed their distance and kissed him. It was clear that Ifan wanted desperately some kind of comfort.

In trance, slowly loosing himself, Ifan reacted at Sandor's lips. He kissed him deeply and desperately, like a thirsty man drinks from water found in middle of an oasis. From his lips to his jaw to finally descend to his neck. Sandor moaned softly when Ifan's pointy fangs scratched his skin, and with his tongue wetted the red mark. Eager, enthusiastic at Sandor's little reactions, Ifan wrapped Sandor's waist with his strong arms, taking advantage of the closeness to demand those lips again and kiss him deeply, this time a bit rougher. Ifan's breath became heavier, as his grasp became tighter.

Unsure of what to do with his hands, Sandor placed them on Ifan's back, looking for an anchor in the imminent storm.

 _Ifan, Ifan._ He whispered, more as a self-reminder than captivated by the slow yet sure escalation of the situation. Ignoring the true meaning of his name so sweetly pronounced, Ifan loosened a bit more. Impetuous, he lifted completely from the carpet and guided Sandor to the ground, groaning as his weight compressed the wizard's body. Kissing behind Sandor's ear, he unbuttoned the first buttons of Sandor's shirt and moved the fabric to expose his shoulder, preparing the zone to leave a trail of intense kisses and marks all across.

Oh, the weight. Sandor trembled and closed his eyes tight. Too tight. His fingers became talons on Ifan's back, and every muscle of his body started to scream, yet he remained silent, swallowing, controlling.

_Ifan. Ifan._

He had to keep remembering that this man over him was Ifan; the kind, gentle Ifan; the intense Ifan, the one who foolishly tended to be carried away sometimes. He moaned too loud when Ifan leg sneaked among his own and, lifting his shirt a little bit, he had access to the skin of his hip and grabbed it.

_IFAN. IFAN._

Paralysed, Sandor stopped reacting. The kisses became twisted. The fragile control he had been managing so far, fell apart. The weight on him felt repulsive, suffocating, to the point he could not breath anymore. Rancid stench from old memories reached his nostril, dirty sweat surrounded him. The gentle hand had turned into a monster's, dirty and oily, with claws instead of fingers, that kept tearing his skin apart. Such brutal hands.

No. _Ifan_ . It _is_ Ifan.

He repeated, over and over, prisoner of his own isolated mind. And once more, after so many repetitions of the same chain of emotions, he was hostage of nauseas twitching his stomach, and slave of his shackles burning in his wrists and ankles. He felt everything once again: the rush of source, the lack of control on everything, the burning ire, the madness taking over his body, the repulsive sounds of pleasure coming from the monster, and the mute scream, deafening, caught in middle of his mind.

He managed to tight the hug, to dig his finger in that back, to hold reality a bit longer. This was Ifan. This moment was meant to share delights with that man of affectionate eyes, not to mix it up with his darkest nightmares. Ifan could not be mixed with them. He had not to. But he could not. He could not hold the pack of monsters set free in his mind, engulfing him, devouring him, tearing him apart. He screamed in his own mind, but nobody cared. Nobody wanted to heard. Nobody wanted to knew. Nobody could ever heard him.

Defeated, Sandor started to cry, unable to stop the monsters that took Ifan's image, that distorted his hands into claws, that transformed those green eyes into predatory ones. He could not stop mixing the gentle with the gross, the kind with the wicked. So he cried, helpless, frustrated, resigned to a horrible twisted fate meant to repeat forever.

Ifan was still providing intense kisses and gentle bites in Sandor's neck when, worried for the total silence in which his partner had submerged himself, he drew back. He lifted his torso to make eye contact with Sandor, and then, shocked, he realised what had been happening. As paralysed as Sandor, Ifan saw his dear _Vehnan_ crying in silence, eyes closed tight and face contorted in pain, holding back a disproportionated horror alone. Why was Sandor doing that?. When the mere kiss in his neck changed into... this?. When those fingers on his back had started to dig in desperation instead of pleasure?. Unsure if distance could make things worse, Ifan did not break the tight hug. Instead, he lifted Sandor from the ground and surrounded him with his arms, paying attention to the slightest gesture of rejection. As soon as the tight contact became a little loosen, Sandor broke into a heartbreaking loud sob, full of shame and guilt, concealing his face in his hands and shrinking his body as much as possible. Sandor had simply broken down in Ifan's arms. Again.

Lost and guilty by the situation, Ifan embraced him slowly, rubbing his back gently. He was accepting the cry, accompanying it in the disconcert, giving a support he was not sure it was useful. After a long moment, the sob slowly diminished. When Sandor vented everything out of him, exhausted, he remained in Ifan's embrace, sniffing once in a while and rubbing his swollen eyes. The constant caress on his back and the random pecks on the top of his head had calmed him down quickly. Sandor was deeply grateful for them, but he was unable to articulate anything.

“Sandor...” Ifan said in the softest voice tone he could manage. “Please. Promise me to never do this again.”

Sandor shrunk “I … I wanted... but...”

Hurt, Ifan closed his eyes and squeezed him “Sandor, I've already brought you enough misery. Let's not do this to us.”

Sandor nodded inside the embrace.

“This is the same that happened that night, when we dealt with Lovrik, right?”

Another silent nod.

Ifan sighed and pressed a long peck on Sandor's head. He knew he was reaching that fragile point. “What's the matter?” He whispered.

Sandor shook his head. “I don't want to talk about it.”

Ifan closed his eyes, painfully. No. Sandor could not do that. To shut out, to exclude him, to become... unapproachable. “Please. We need to talk about this.”

“No...”

With tortured soul, Ifan squeezed Sandor, swearing at his useless tongue that, unlike an elven one, could not seek in kisses and gentle bites the darkest secrets hidden in that trembling body.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

Ifan walked down to the lower deck, crossing Dallis' chamber frame door. He knocked on the open door several times, asking for permission, but nobody was there. He stepped in, and a soft hum in the atmosphere dragged his attention. Looking for the source of such disturbing sound, his eyes darted to the far away corner, where the black mirror and its replica were placed. The purple mist around them was now a bit more blueish than before. Or so he thought. He squatted in front of them, and looked at their dark surface. Nothing was reflected on them.

“Good day, Sir” Tarquin said walking silently into the chamber. His voice startled Ifan, who in a clean movement stood up and turned over. Tarquin had the pair of pyramids in his hands.

“Right. Same.”

Tarquin looked at the Wayfarer with a raised eyebrow, an amused smile on his face while placing the objects on the table. He took a seat and sat resting on his elbows, his index fingers tapping his chin while the other man walked to him.

“May I help you with something?”

Ifan looked at the pyramids on the table, and then, at Tarquin's face. His lips twitched. Despite having nothing to fear at this point in their mission, this mysterious man always made him feel uneasy. His clearly hidden power and his knowledge were impossible to estimate, same as his darkest intentions. The mixture of unfathomable power and the projection of his image, a display of innocence and weakness, were always giving Ifan goosebumps. Ifan had learnt on the hard way that the most dangerous ones were those who enjoyed to be perceived as the weakest. Ifan sighed. “Right. I'll go straight to the point”

Tarquin stopped his tapping fingers, and a shadow of a wry smile curved his lips. “Absolutely, nobody wants to waste each other's time”

“What do you know about the _cure_ of the source?”

Tarquin blinked. “Ah… that is quite an euphemism”

“I know. I need to know.... Do you think a transformation like _that_ can be… undone?”

“Oh, you mean to cure the cure of the Source. The Silent Monks.” Tarquin looked down, placing his chin on a fist “I don't know the details of the process—believe me I would kill to know them—but it seems rather impossible to revert it.”

“When we met you for the first time, in this ship, you had two gheist down-floor. And your journal explained...”

“Those creatures were Dallis'. I'd been observing them to understand their nature. I have nothing to do with the process. It was Braccus Rex's doing. Not mine. I only… you know, did what she told me”

“And?”

“As I said, I don't know the details. But I would risk to consider this: source is deeply entangled with a creature's soul. If it's not their soul itself. Purging that, removes the soul, the essence. Our mind, emotions and personal characteristics are all imprinted in our soul, and therefore our source. That's why source is always emotion-related. If you take off all that from a person… what remains?. Pretty much a Silent Monk with some residual memories in their flesh when they are turned recently. If I attempt to fix this process… I wouldn't know where to start.” Tarquin muttered something to himself, while looking aside for a moment, as if he were thinking alternatives. “Mnn, probably some remnants of the original source in their bodies would allow a precarious reconstruction of their source. But just that, precarious. Those residual memories vanish after a couple of weeks. Whatever remains attached to the body, it will only last temporally.”

“That's not possible. We… we have killed Silent Monks whose spirit seemed to be free afterwards”

Tarquin blinked in surprise, then he smiled with satisfaction. “Oh, the perks of being a Godwoken. I envy you all. I imagine those were transformed recently before dying. Do you saw this phenomenon in old Silent Monks?”

Ifan shrugged. “I don't know how to tell if a Silent Monk was turned recently or not.”

“Mn”, Tarquin placed a finger on his own chin, “Indeed. There are only small details that make the difference. Probably too small to perceive them during a fight against them.” The finger on his chin ran down to his neck, palm pressing there in a kind of caress, and his smile broadened. “May I pry, why are you so concern about this... cure? ”

Ifan raised an eyebrow. “Isn't it obvious?. It may happen to any of us.”

Tarquin raised his chin a little bit, squinted eyes, measuring Ifan's body language, “Mhnm. I see. I see.”

“So...” Ifan cleared his throat, bringing the topic back again, “Silent Monks can't be cure... I imagine Gheists work the same way”

“Well, Gheists are my main curiosity. You see, they are not like the Silent Monks. They react. And for what Malady told me, in Fort Joy she saw some sourcerers turning into them. All of them, crucified.”

“Ew. I saw those too. But they were Shriekers.”

“I'm afraid they are the same, my friend. The crucifix is only to keep them in one place.” Ifan closed his eyes for a moment, repulsed by those images in his mind. Tarquin looked at him, lips curved in wry smile, “Forgive me for insisting, but... may I ask you the true reason of such questions coming from a person so apprehensive about these matters?”

“It's just a thought. Is it possible to recover recently transformed ones? Can you.. do your scholar thing on that matter?”

“My, I have a lot of work. Anathema's protection, Black mirrors, pyramids, malady's personal stuff....”

“I only can offer you what I'm good at: hunting. Tell me if you need something, and I may be able to get it.”

Tarquin smiled, getting close to Ifan. He patted Ifan's chest. “We have a deal, my handsome friend.”

 

* * *

It was a clear night, the Dragon's claws were easily observed in the sky, and the waning moon barely illuminated the fields. They had settle a camp close to Paradise Down, in an effort to find more survivors of the great Voidwoken attack that had happened in the zone. The disaster had been triggered by two sourcerers. Hannag, the one that Ifan almost killed, and Gwydian, her student; the one they had yet to find.

They sat around the campfire and ate a pair of rabbits that Ifan hunted during the afternoon. Lohse and Fane were talking about folk tales from their origin lands, and bickering about the lack of sense in each other's narrations. Silent, still thinking in Lucian's great betrayal, Ifan ate far-off from Sandor. It was not a casual behaviour. Ifan had decided to keep his distance for a while, not as a punishment of any kind. It simply was the best way he found to deal with the awkward sentiment that started to grow in him every time he was around Sandor. It was not a senseless fear, or the same kind of fear inspired by enormous Voidwoken that could freeze his veins. It was a more subtle emotion but not for that less terrible. It was the fear that comes from doubts, from unspoken and unresolved things, from filling blanks with too much imagination.

He always had claws with which he had done too much damage, but it had always been by his own decision. He had never imagined that he would lose control over those claws to caress Sandor. He was now afraid of their proximity, wondering if it was always destined to become into harm, or if his touch had no more effect than to bring Sandor horrible thoughts. He had even questioned their past kisses, asking himself if the intense closeness they had shared so far had always inspired in Sandor a well-concealed repulsion that he had never noted. Had it been, during all this time, a hidden torture for Sandor? How long had he been silencing his own reaction?. How many of their kisses were truly enjoyed, or was it all part of a self-forced imposition in which Ifan had no control at all?.

In trance, as lost in his thoughts as he was by observing the fire, Ifan did not dodge a small stick which hit his head. Awoken suddenly, he looked around. “Rivellon to Moon, Ifan, you got my signal?." Sebille smiled impishly to him. "Tell us, what are you going to do with Divinity? Don't tell me that garbage of righting the wrongs. I mean more specifically.” He looked around, most of his companions were observing him, listening carefully. It seemed that at some point their conversation had changed its focus towards him and, lost in thoughts, he had not realized about it.

He blinked, processing that so out-of-the-blue-question . “I don't know. Thinking it more carefully... well... The idea makes me shudder. So much power in one person. Look what Lucian did, the bastard.” Ifan said. “The more I think about it, the less I agree with all this Divine thing. How can we entrust so much power in a sole individual?. What would prevent the corruption?. Sometimes I wonder how I could prevent my own corruption if I became Divine.”

“That's why an Eternal should be Divine. We had this power for ages. We know how to control it” Fane added lifting his skull a little bit, forcing a dignified gesture that it was hard to be appreciated by everyone.

“Are you serious?” Lohse said. “Who was the first one tearing apart the cosmic curtains?”

“Well, a Divine certainly not” Fane added, a bit defeated but proud.

“And you, Lohse?” Sebille asked.

“Honestly. I just want power to control this thing in my head. But sometimes I wonder if Divinity is not a little too much.”

Ifan looked at Lohse, worried, feeling in her image a reflection of himself. “Aren't you scare that the thing inside will get the power instead of you?” He said.

Lohse looked down, frowning. “That's a possibility. And I don't like it.” She sighed. “And you, Sandor?”

Sandor, shrunk in his usual posture, was lost in his thoughts while staring at the fire.

“Sandor?”

He blinked and turned over his head. The first person he saw was Ifan, so he lowered his head, ashamed. Then he looked at Sebille. “What?”

Sebille and Lohse shared a worried look, and then the musician repeated the question. “Are you thinking what to do with Divinity?”

He shook his head. “I... have no idea what's going to happen. But so far, I think we need to stick together. If the voices tell us one thing, we need to do exactly the opposite. I'm sure of that. There must be a way to solve the riddle without using the only answers that they are providing. Masters do that and claim their subjects are free to choose. But this freedom means nothing without options.”

“I like that rebel spark” Sebille said in a smirk.

“So, these gods inside you all... are just like my...” Lohse pointed her temple. “They like to trick you?”

“I've never lost control over it.” Sebille added, looking at Ifan instinctively who averted his eyes. “But maybe they can control some of us. The weakest ones. Tir-Cendelius told me that I had to be a lion among lambs, to take power, not to wait for others. It makes me wonder how they became gods. It seems that they just took power from somewhere, and claimed Divinity. No honour, no high skills, no ethics, no fairy tale of chosen one. There is nothing special in them, like there is nothing special in us. Just being at the right moment to take power, at the right time, in the right place.”

“Maybe. After all, gods don't exist. It's clear that much with just to look around. So many people praying in desperation... and silence is all what they get. Like peasants asking their King for help. One wonders how their faith resists that brutal abandonment. How do you keep... believing” Ifan said moving with a stick the rest of the burning wood in the fire to keep it alive with the same intensity. With Ifan's words, everyone was submerged into dark thoughts.

“Can you imagine? All these seven gods, all weird adventurers like us, that started this journey aeons ago.” Lohse giggled, “Vrogir being all angry because he had to sleep in a tiny tent, and Rhalic was offended too, because why he was going to share a tent with a brute like Vrogir. And Zorl-Stissa trying to peace the situation with all her high-nose style, and in the meantime, Xantezza was spreading pepper in everyone's sleep bags so they'll have an itching night.”

Everyone laughed softly with the exception of Fane, who had been silent during the whole conversation. “What a way to make them look so … mundane. They were lords and ladies. Not a bunch of uncultured farmers. Ugh, mortals.”

The silence remained for a bit more, leaving everyone alone with their own thoughts and the whispers of that unnatural presence inside their souls. In less than an hour, everyone went to their tents to rest with the exception of Sandor, who walked away from the campfire to the edges of the land where the Voidwoken had destroyed the ground leaving an enormous crack separating farms. He observed the chaos left. So much has been happening lately, in such a short time.

He sighed and frowned noticing _something_ in the air. He turned and looked at the bushes and trees. He knew Ifan was there, close, hidden. “Why are you doing this?”.

Softly laughing, Ifan moved outside the shadows and approached him, “I used to be hard to detect”

Sandor smiled. “I smelled you”

Ifan frowned, reaching his own shoulder with his nose. “Do I smell?”

Sandor snorted. “No. It's not that what I mean. It's your scent.”

Ifan beamed at him.“Oh, what a nose you have there.”

“Blame the closeness. The one that you have been avoiding for quite a time...” Sandor turned again, and observed the landscape.

Ah, there it was, the acid scholar tongue. Ifan looked down. “It's not that.”

Ifan stepped forward, getting close to Sandor and appreciating the night landscape of Down Paradise. A land of tranquillity and peace—a true paradise—turned into a devastated picture of illness and ashes.

“I wanted to talk to you, alone”. Ifan said. “We need to talk about what happened last time?”

“But I... I don't want to.”

Ifan said nothing and lowered his face. He was lost. He could not force Sandor into explaining something he did not want to. But to be in the darkness, trying to approach the subject blindly, walking on unknown ground with the possibility of hurting him unconsciously, was going to lead them to a dead-end. How he was going to avoid those details that tortured Sandor if he did not know about them? Should he avoid everything? How would he manage to make all this more comfortable to Sandor, eventually, if the wizard covered everything under a mantle of silence?. He knew how this was going to end if it continued that way.

Ifan turned towards Sandor and crossed his arms. “Then, tell me... how I'm supposed to know how to approach?”

Sandor looked away, silent.

“Sandor... to know that I can put your into that situation... I've never... I don't want this neither for you nor for me.”

In a fast movement, Sandor met Ifan's eyes, fear and pain glinted in them.

“If I don't know how to get close to you without hurting you, maybe we need to... em... put an end to this.”

Sandor's eyes became wet. His eyebrows twisted in pain.

That face broke Ifan's heart. He approached him and caressed his cheek. “Dear. I don't know what to do, truth be told. I'm in the darkness here.” He kissed Sandor's forehead. “That's why I thought... we should talk about it...But if you don't want to... I can't. I can't keep this in this way. I told you, let's not do this to us."

Sandor shook his head slowly, and looked down. Silence.

Ifan pressed his lips in a thin line. What that even meant?. "Please, Sandor... don't leave me in silence. This is what you want?"

Sandor shook again his head, more intensely now.

"Good. Because, believe me, I don't want it either. I just don't want to hurt you. You were hurt enough already. But I don't know what to do. Guide me. _Please_.”

Sandor hugged him violently, burying his face in Ifan's chest, secretly needing that scent around him, that warmth, those mistreated arms surrounding him with care.

“Give me some time...” Sandor finally said in a muffled whisper.

“Just promise me we are going to talk, eventually.”

Hidden in Ifan's chest, Sandor nodded squeezing his body with all the strength he had. Sadly smiling, Ifan nodded silently, and held Sandor for a long while.

 


	8. Chapter 8

The first measure they took when they arrived to the Nameless Isle was to perform a partial exploration. Led by Ifan in the wild and by Fane in the temples, they investigated half of the Isle. With the landscape infected of Black Ring members everywhere, it was not hard to find themselves into troubles. They had to fight against the infamous cult several times, and during the last fight Sandor and Lohse ended wounded. The exploration of the Isle to find the Shadow Prince or Alexander had to be stopped momentarily.

Camping in the Isle was out of question; with so many enemies around it was too dangerous, so they remained in the Lady Vengeance. Even though the ship was unable to dock, she could stay close the isle and offer to her crew enough time for recovery. In cases like this, to have a ship with a soul and a certain degree of free will could be very advantageous.

Lohse was the one who needed longer time to heal, because unlike Sandor, she had been attacked with cursed blades. Curses were a headache when it came to wounds. Any cut made by a cursed blade used to infect the flesh and affect the soul. In her case, the wound had reached a deeper level. According to Jahan's words, the entity controlling her mind had been affected too, producing sudden vertigo and discomfort.

Waiting for Lohse's recovery, Sandor considered appropriate to keep training in the beach close to the ship. He had not been wounded with cursed weapons, but he had received some stabs in his back nonetheless. If the Black Ring rogues would have been more careful, they should have knocked him down and prevented him to cast a healing spell. And by now, he would be dead, for sure. The obvious truth of all that situation was that he needed more training. Face-to-face combat was his weakest point and no enchanted weapon nor his magic would change that fact.

From the main deck, crossed arms, Sebille was leant on the ship handrail, observing the practice of the man in the beach. Even from that distance she could spot all the bad postures and the open accesses that the wizard left, but she could not restrain a satisfying smile on her face. Some weeks ago Sandor was incapable of simply recovering his spinning weapons, now he even could stab a distracted fighter. A very distracted one, of course.

She knew that martial combat was a hard skill to cultivate. It was not something that anyone, specially less a scholar, could master in a couple of weeks. It required intense and sustained training and could take even decades under such regime to get used to pain and hits, to enjoy the rush of adrenaline, and balance all these factors to keep focused on the combat. Never too much confidence, yet never hesitant.

“You seem pretty happy.” Ifan approached her, looking at her with his head tilted.

“It's only the satisfaction that comes from hard work, when the seeds you cultivated finally bloom, small and fragile, but in a rare colour.”

Ifan smiled at her, but frowned a bit, confused. He looked into the dark of the beach and spotted sparks of source and the glowing wake left in the air by a couple of chakrams. “Can he fight an average soldier?”

Sebille laughed. “Of course not. But he can use his weapon without losing his fingers.”

Ifan chuckled and scratched his head. “Well. That's something. I reckon. It's good to know that he has a lot of source to burn before relying on his weapons.”

She did not say anything. They kept looking at the beach, watching the sparks of energy here and there. Ifan turned his body, and with his elbows leant on the rail, he looked up. The sky was partially cloudy, the moon was dark, and a lugubrious breeze was blowing. The feeling of a bad omen filled his chest.

"I need to ask you a favour, Sebille."

"Mn?" she did not move, memorizing all the flaw she was spotting at the distance in order to explain them to Sandor later.

"If I don't make it, if in this battle I fall, bring some part of me to the Elves of the West. And those from the Isle of Balurik too."

She narrowed her eyes, now moving her head to see Ifan's profile. "Why should I do that?"

" _Dhaleram_ "

Sebille looked down at the sea, at the calm waves that were going and coming constantly. "Well, that explains some things."

"So? Can I count on you?" Both of them stared one another, tense yet gentle.

Sebille clicked her tongue, annoyed. "Very well. I'll do it...” Ifan grinned, patting Sebille's back enthusiastically, “but... try not to. It will be a disgrace to see your _Vhenan_ wistful. We have enough with the way he already is."

Ifan snorted and looked down, leaving his hand on Sebille's hard shoulder, squeezing it with gentleness, as a chill crossed his back. "I'm always trying. But you know, some day, my luck will run out."

Sebille's cat eyes looked at him intensely, and then to the beach. She remembered some words that Lohse had told her days ago, and smiled making appear out of nowhere a dice among her fingers . “I'll make sure everyone has enough luck until the end”.

 

* * *

It was decided by Sebille and Saheila. The tree had to die. The Mother Tree had been corrupted long time ago, losing its desire to help people, to heal the land, to let life flourish in all its colours. Instead, it had turned into an evil entity thirsty for domination and total control over the world. Now that its tight leash had been weakened, and some elves could see through its façade in all its true nature, the answer became obvious: they had to destroy the Mother Tree.

The strategy was plain and careless, neither Sebille nor Saheila had planned it with details. They went straight to the core of the Mother Tree itself and destroyed her heart. From its decaying bark, thousands of source orbs flew away violently, seeking a passage to the Hall of Echoes, while others, still confused by the sudden liberation, roamed aimlessly near the ground. Some of them even took their old mortal shapes and looked around in fear, as if they could not remember what had happened with their lives and deaths.

The confusion born from the sudden disappearance of the Mother Tree's presence did not affected only the dead but also the living ones. Out of the blue, an abrupt emptiness was unfolded in every elf's chest. Shocked by the sensation, each of them stopped short whatever they were doing, and looked one another, lost, empty, hurt. They saw the quick darkening of the bark around them, the vivid green trees withered in an instant, and they went mad. That constant presence in their souls had just disappeared, and with it an abrupt, terrifying perception of freedom bloomed, affecting their senses. They were, finally, truly free. And hopelessly lonely.

Sebille and her companions fled from the inside of the Mother tree, dodging the many thousands of source orbs that kept escaping from its core, but they could not avoid the encounter with the living ones. They ended facing several furious elves who waited for them at the entrance of the Mother Tree core, weapons at hands and dark looks. They ran, looking for a way to spare those elves' lives, avoiding to engage into combat at any cost, but in their escaping they met Alexandar.

A group of Magisters was surrounding the Divine's son as if they were a shield, while Gareth—in front of all of them—held his sword, darting a furious glower while he shouted at Alexandar. The mere presence of the Divine's son was enough for Ifan to feel his control falter. He grabbed his chest and tried to breath, but there was no room in his soul for his own will, for his own decision. He blinked twice, and a massive amount of source awoke in his body, unable to manage it. His eyes shone in an intense green, and a double voice; half his, half Rhalic's, shouted at Alexandar. Everything else beyond Alexandar stayed in the background; he forgot about the raging elves, about his companions, about the death of the Mother Tree. The Hunger arose uncontrollably, and like the wax of a candle, his own source started to burn itself, self-consumed, leaving behind a maddening need for more source and violence.

“Why?. Why did you and Lucian send me on this suicide mission to kill all elves? Why did you lie to me?” Ifan yelled, and a blast of source knocked everyone out, angry elves, Magisters, and companions alike. The only one standing was Alexandar, who had cast a thick shield around him just in time to receive the impact.

“To protect the Realm. The life of some in exchange for the whole Rivellon.” Alexandar said.

While he spoke, the elves recovered and, with swords and active spells in their hands, attacked everyone. Ifan, too subdued by Rahlic's will, did not seem to realise the amount of enemies that were surrounding them; he was, like a predator, only focused on Alexandar. Only Sandor and the others could maintain the angry mob at bay.

“I'm going to be the next Divine, and I will take any actions necessary” Alexandar said.

Ifan's last bit of consciousness was consumed by the rage triggered by those words. He recalled the memories of the spreading Deathfog in the forest, and the deafening screams of despair coming from the last people he could call family.

Ifan pushed aside Gareth and, unsheathing his knife, he jumped at Alexandar breaking his shield with a powerful blast of source. Unprotected, the man recoiled but he was not quick enough. Ifan reached him, grabbing his hair with his free hand and stabbed him over and over, splashing blood everywhere. Content with the damage done, Ifan pulled the bleeding man's hair to look at him in the eyes. Ifan's voice became distorted, and his source-eyes shone with more intensity. Rhalic was hungry and disappointed with the agonizing man. No. Ifan's revenge had fed him for so long that finishing it right there was not fair. He needed more, he needed the sweetest and most painful part of retaliation. He demanded torture. So, he broke Alexandar's hands, and his screams made him laugh. He needed more. More. He bit Alexandar's shoulder and ate a chunk of it, draining source in the process. The pleasure was so mixed with Ifan's childhood memories, his deep frustrations for lacking an elven tongue, and the raw hatred so infused in Ifan's soul that Rhalic could not stop tearing Alexandar's flesh. Bit by bit, Rhalic drained that body's source completely while drinking all the contradictory emotions coming from Ifan's consciousness. The rare, exquisite taste of the paradox, this was the most dainty harvest that Rhalic had ever done.

“No, Ifan”. Sandor said, casting wrongly his last shield which exploded close to him, pushing him some meters away. He wanted to contain Ifan's madness but also to block the elves without hurting them.

"Come into your fucking senses!" Sebille shouted out, throwing some elves downstairs; their bodies rolled violently along the several ramps that were part of the temple of Tir- Cendelius.

Suddenly, a bigger figure made of burning source lifted over Ifan's body and took Rhalic's form for a fraction of a second. The God laughed maniacally and purged the source of the man in Ifan's hands; his remnants—a mess of guts, flesh, and blood—fell on the ground. Rhalic had just consumed a Godwoken's source, a powerful one destined to Divinity, his own chosen one, and the taste of such feast, so rare and exquisite, just lasted some minutes in his mouth. He felt more powerful than before, the Void corruption that had been claiming his energies diminished a little bit. But Rhalic did not stop there, that amount of source also had turned his hunger into something else, reaching another level. Now he needed more. It was his right as ruler of humans to demand satisfaction. He looked around, at all those elves and humans so full of source. He had to consume them all.

“Watch out!. He went mad!” Fane screamed, foreseeing Rhalic's intentions.

All that massive amount of source that had taken Rhalic's shape, collapsed once again in Ifan's body. His skin was immediately covered with bright cracks of source. Summoned out of nowhere, Afrit appeared by his side, red eyes and source-fur floating around him while a menacing snarl contracted the wolf expression and made him unrecognizable.

With pleas and screams, his companions tried to stop him, but Ifan was unreachable. He turned over his heels, and as a Rhalic's good servant that he was, he decided to deliver the violence that his master requested. He took his crossbow from his back and with his glowing unfocused eyes looked at everyone. Who was going to be the next?. And the next?. And the next?.

Deep in his confused consciousness, Ifan could not distinguish the screams of the elves dying in middle of the Deathfog with the reality at his front. The wild mind state in which he was, mixed his torturing memories of the past with the laments he could hear along the grey bark of Mother Tree; cries that were echoing in every elf he was fighting against.

His companion's warnings, the death rattles of the bodies he was crushing, Gareth's voice begging him to stop, Sandor's groan, Sebille's fast attacks, Fane's useless fire, Lohse's weak shields. Some small part of Ifan tried to fight against all that storm of emotions out of control, but it was impossible. Every memory only overwhelmed him. The last straw was when Rhalic's orders appeared in his mind, on a white sheet of paper in which letters are burnt slowly, writing an undeniable contract asked by a God: _everyone there had to be consumed._ A contract made by his own God.

_Glechou Dumar._

Afrit howled, and by reflecting Ifan's clearest emotions, his fur burnt violently. Wild flames of source covered his enormous body while he attacked the few Magisters that were still shocked by Alexander's death. Casting a rain of source-arrows, Ifan aimed everywhere, shooting everyone who was not aware of this massive attack. Only few could react quickly enough to take cover or raise a magical shield.

Image after image, everything looked like a strange chain of events that were happening far away. Arrows piercing everything he had ever known. Screams that he could not distinguish if were coming from the past or the present. The smell of source being burnt. The iron tang of blood in his mouth. The cold blade of a dagger cutting his arm.

While the world was a senseless maelstrom of bodies and violence, Ifan could still see Afrit clearly. The wolf was running berserker, tearing apart and consuming the shocked souls that could not understand their sudden death yet.

Death, madness, violence. Rhalic's demanding feast.

“Stop this massacre, child.”

A voice—clear and gentle—stood out in his chaotic mind, vanishing all his source, his rage, his uncontrollable madness. All the screams of despair and his companions' pleas stopped. An abrupt silence halted the scene, as if time had been stopped. Tears ran down along Ifan's cheeks, when one of the last spirits fleeing from the Mother Tree took their previous life's shape and looked at him. _Stop this massacre, child._ An old elven woman with gentle eyes and a soft frown walked slowly to him and touched his cheek, passing through the flesh. Then, she disappeared.

Mother Melati.

Ifan blinked, putting down his crossbow, and finally looked around with his own eyes, with a clear mind. Dozens of elves had been slaughtered, some were a mass of guts, purged by Afrit. Gareth was on his kneels, resting his bodyweight on his sword, panting in extreme exhaustion. Far away from them, Lohse was knocked down, and Fane was casting a recovery spell on her. Sebille was at his front, looking at him with defiance. Her shoulder was pierced by an arrow. She was exhausted as well, as if she had been fighting against him for a long time. He frowned. Had it been so?. He looked at his arm, a long cut on his forearm was bleeding. He had no memory of what had happened a couple of minutes ago.

“Did you fucking come to your senses?” Sebille's voice wavered, spitting blood aside.

Ifan looked down; his hands were trembling and dripping blood. In fact, all of his body was soaked in blood. Clearly most of it was not his. He looked around once again, searching for the last one missing. Where was Sandor?. He turned over, to see horrified the wizard on the ground, with three arrows in his chest. _His_ source-arrows.

His crossbow fell on the ground, and he ran to him immediately.

Sebille finally sighed in relief, sheathing her daggers and touching her shoulder. She removed the arrow with a clean yet painful movement. Then, she looked at Sandor, frowning. He did not look well.

Ifan knelt beside Sandor with hesitant hands. Sandor's mouth was bleeding, his lips were contracting in a reflex movement, and his breathing was becoming difficult each passing second. His eyes were almost closed. What had he done?.

"Help him, please. Help him!", Ifan yelled.

Fane approached them observing Sandor's chest. He moved his skull in a negative gesture. "Ugh. According to human physiology, the second arrow is quite close to his heart. It may have even scratched it. If we remove the arrow with the usual procedure, it will rip it off... he will die."

Ifan's lips trembled. He touched Sandor's cheek. A small glint of light in his almost closed eyes was all what he could see. They were losing him.

"I'll do it" Sebille said, and pushing Ifan gently, she sat on Sandor's stomach, a hand on his chest and the other around the arrow. Her movements were always extremely precise with a needle. An arrow could mess with the accuracy of the angle in comparison, but it was not _much_ different. Or she wanted to believe so. This wizard was the only person who had saved her from a life of slavery under her Master's desires; he could not end like this. She was not going to let him end this way. She would roll the dices to get the best shot. "Start healing him at this very moment. I'll remove it in a clean movement."

"That's dangerous..." Fane said.

"If I remove the arrow slowly , I'll kill him. If we leave him this way, he'll die too. We have no choice."

Fane forced a useless sigh and immediately cast an intense blue flame from his bony hands into Sandor's chest. Sebille moved the arrow a bit, waking Sandor from his drowsiness in hair-raising screams. She smiled. It was good to heard all that lung potency. He certainly was not dead yet. When she felt the angle was right, she pulled the arrow with all her speed while pushing Sandor's chest against the ground. The wizard screamed, and a stream of blood splashed her. A soft agonizing moan came from Sandor before passing out, while Fane exhausted all his magic to quickly contain the wound and heal any scratch that could have affected the heart. His magic was lopped off suddenly, burnt completely in the effort. Sandor's wound was not closed completely, but the deepest zone was safe already.

"The other arrows will be removed after recovering some energy. We are all exhausted. Meanwhile, let's see how he evolves. We need to carry him to the Lady Vengeance." Sebille said, standing on her feet with effort. She looked at her bloody hand with the arrow, shaking, as she winced in pain. The movement had worsened her shoulder.

 

Fane, Lohse, and Gareth brought Sandor to the Lady Vengeance, while Ifan and Sebille remained in the temple. They checked Alexander's body—or what had been left of it—and found some passwords cards that would grant them access to the Academy.

During their inspection, Ifan remained in silence looking at the mess of guts and the several bodies around. The thick layer of blood spread on the whole platform of the temple was a clear proof of the violence he had inflicted yet could not remember in the slightest. Curious by the quietness of her companion, Sebille stood aside him and observed Alexandar's guts while pressing her shoulder.

“Delicious, right?. To fulfil your own revenge.” Sebille smiled with satisfaction, thinking that Ifan shared with her the relief of knowing that their personal nightmares had come to an end. However, far from being satisfied, Ifan shook his head, still shocked by the image of Sandor in his mind. He almost killed him.

“No. Look what I've done for this shit” He kicked a Magister's leg, then, he looked at Sebille and then to her shoulder. “I'm... I'm sorry.”

Sebille raised an eyebrow and tilted her head.

Ifan looked around. “It can't stop. A path full of dead. It's all what's left behind. It's all what I … always... left behind”. He looked at his hands, still dirty in blood. “I'm not myself. I can't become into this... I...”

Sebille approached Alexandar's gore remains and moved some parts with her finger, looking for a reasonable piece. She ate it, wrinkling her nose. It was disgusting in every sense. Ifan only saw her, his face showing no emotion or revulsion for her action. She sighed in annoyance and kept testing the flavour in her tongue, closing her eyes to focus on the images. Then, she took Ifan's arm and removed the steel bracer to lick his forearm slowly. She closed her eyes again. Rhalic. He was taking too much control over Ifan, and in doing so, the God was imprinting fragments of his own knowledge in the human flesh. She smirked.

“These damn gods. We are their preys. I'm tired of being anyone's servant. As so are you. Come.” She pulled his forearm gently, heading out from the damned temple.

“Where are we going?” Ifan asked without putting any resistance.

“To destroy these little masters.” Ifan frowned, mistrustful when Sebille smirked at him in that way, “Alexandar's flesh says that he had never allowed Rhalic to control his mind. He had made a pact with Xantezza. Rhalic fears her a lot. So, we need to find her temple. Maybe we can pact with her too, and get rid of these damned creatures in our heads.”

Even though Ifan was not completely convinced that could work, he followed her. Worse case scenario was the one they were already living.

 

They returned to the Lady Vengeance changed. Everyone could see it. Sebille's eyes had turned intenser, and Ifan's smile--that one without a shadow of darkness--had returned to his face. He was once again that man that everyone knew during their time in Fort Joy.

Curious by these obvious changes, Malady questioned them receiving from Sebille's hands a red gem. The temple of Xantezza had granted them freedom without tricks or lies. No violent Hunger would bend their souls, no more whispers would fill their ears during the tranquillity of their dreams, no more control over them. The Godwokens had acquired a unique chance to be free of the torments inflicted by the Gods. And they had seized it.

Malady offered the gem to the rest of the group. She pressed it against their chests, allowing the Godwokens to commune with the God of mirth. The simple gesture was enough for them to accept Xantezza's offering. Even in his bed of recovery, deep in his sleep, Sandor accepted the gift in his unconscious state.

Once everyone were free of their Gods, Malady offered it to Lohse. She had been avoiding her until everyone used the gem and, as it was proved later, it had been a wise decision. At the moment Lohse touched the gem, it became black, as if it had been burnt, and it cracked all along its surface. Xantezza was incapable of freeing her. Lohse's eyes went teary at the sight of the last chance lost.

"I'm... I'm destined to be someone's puppet". She said with her chest tight.

Sebille hugged her. Among whispers, she promised her that they would find another way. The Dices of Fortune had showed a good ending to her. Lohse laughed among some rebel tears. Now she was going to trust in dices.

 

* * *

He summoned a controlled fire around the bathtub and waited for the water to be hot. He was feeling himself a bit odd. To be free of Rhalic was strange but not for that he was going to complain. Quite on the contrary. No whispers, no Hunger, no strange twitches in his stomach. Being free from that dark presence in his soul allowed him to notice how tired he had been living lately. Now, he was infused with new energies. Perhaps too much energy. The apparent source stability he had enjoyed so far had been a direct result of Rhalic's presence. The God used to consume his source, collected in vast amounts due to his rare condition. But now that he was free of the parasite, probably his usual troubles related to his instability would resurface once again. Or they could become even worse. It was clear that his pool of source had been expanded, and his regeneration was faster than before.

He rubbed his face, trying not to think much on it. To return to his permanent fear of blasts and his uncontrollable accumulation of source while suffering them with a higher frequency was a thought that filled him with frustration. He only hoped he could be wrong; that Rhalic's constant consumption of his source would not have educated his body to speed up his regeneration rate.

The bathtub made a cracking sound at the change of temperature. It was perfect. The water was steamy, hot enough to relax him. He removed his torn bloody robe and cast a cleaning spell on his body, splattered with blood and rests of guts everywhere. He looked at his chest, touching the recently closed wounds. Three marks of deformed stars had become his first fighting scars since this journey had started. The source in Ifan's arrows had burnt his skin preventing a complete magical healing. He slid into the bathtub and moaned as hot water relaxed his tired, hurt body. He kept stroking the three marks on his skin, the lingering pain still fresh in his mind.

“Sandor?”

Ifan's gentle voice brought him into reality. “I'm here.” Sandor said behind the folding screen that hid the bathtub. His voice was low, knowing that the middle deck had a special echo. Any sound would reach the stairs immediately.

The wooden floor creaked under Ifan's steps. They approached the folding screen and stopped right behind it . “Oh, I see you aren't in bed anymore. Good.” Ifan's shadow was projected on the screen. His figure stayed there, without any intention to pass the limit; his profile lowered, as if Ifan were looking at the ground. “I wanted to.... um... tell you that I'm sorry. I almost... I...”

Sandor smiled. Of course Ifan was going to be around. He was almost certain that, while he was still recovering, unconscious, Ifan would check on his state constantly, just to make sure that the first thing that Sandor would listen once awaken was his apology. That was Ifan and his guilt. Sandor submerged his body a little bit, enough to cover everything except his shoulders and head, and cast a thin layer of mist on the bathtub surface. “Come in...”

Ifan's shadow stood motionless for a second, as if he were considering the pros and cons of such suggestion, and finally went around the folding screen, “Um... If you allow me...” he said, looking at him for a moment, just to move his sight to the ground. His look was going and coming, and a soft blush reached his cheeks.

Sandor moved his hand out of the water and pointed out a stool, silent request that Ifan accepted with a fast nod. The wayfarer sat by his side, and then, maybe with the confidence that the small invitation had given him, he finally indulged himself into staring at him. Sandor smiled when he realised that those green eyes were clearer; his smile, affectionate and tainted by the current guilt, was lacking of that dark desire of consumption that had acquired during the last months.

Sandor did not mind the stare. What used to be uncomfortable before, now it was something he enjoyed secretly. That someone could desire him so much and still yet would never caress him without his permission was a delight. Of course, nobody but Ifan would make him feel that way; nobody but Ifan would have such warm kindness deeply entangled with such intense desire.

Ifan's smile vanished when his eyes lowered a bit to see the new scars on Sandor's skin. After a moment, he averted his eyes and swallowed. “Damn, I'm sorry. I shouldn't stare. But... I simply can't stop.”

Sandor chuckled. Encouraged by that pleasant sound, Ifan looked at the man again—or at least, he tried to. The curve of Sandor's shoulders was all the time dragging his attention. He lowered his face once again, forcing to focus on, and a grave gesture hardened his face. “I wanted to apology for what happened to you. I was not myself...”

“I know. Don't worry.”

“You were almost killed. By me. I worry. But that won't happen again.” Timidly, Ifan returned to observe Sandor's eyes, those sad brown eyes were cleaner too, the whispers in the background of their minds were finally silenced.

“Revenge has been served, right?” Sandor said.

Ifan nodded. “It's done. As it's done the crazy asshole that was taking control over me. Now... now we can focus on Divinity.”

Sandor slid down into the tube further, water touching his chin, as his kneels emerged to the surface over the thin layer of steam. “Are we prepared?”

“For Divinity?. As much as we can be.”

Ifan observed Sandor's fringe and frowned a bit. A bunch of grey hairs were growing there. He extended his hands and touched them, realising it had grown since the first time they met. Sandor closed his eyes allowing Ifan to scratch his head playfully, running his fingers along his hair. The moment lasted longer, relaxing both of them while healing something that the gory image of Ifan distorted by Rhalic's whims had damaged.

“I wanted to give you something” Ifan whispered.

Sleepy, Sandor opened his eyes and looked up.

Ifan took one of his many medallions around his neck and suspended it in the air. It was a necklace with a single claw. A symbol of the man he had been for so long, of the man that Sandor had accepted without second thoughts. He kept the necklace waving in the air, in front of Sandor, who instead of taking it, straightened his body and invited Ifan to put it around his neck.

Sandor felt Ifan's hands on his nape, and once the necklace was fastened, they remained there, caressing his skin, going down to one of the three new scars. Then, Ifan left a peck on Sandor's head and returned to the stool. His bright green eyes were fascinated with that single claw that was falling into the water, slowly sliding over Sandor's skin.

“I'll treasure it.” Sandor grabbed the claw in his hand.

Ifan's smile broadened. They did not have to say anything else.

 


	9. Chapter 9

 

“How are you doing?” Ifan said placing a hand on Sebille's back, drawing a gentle circle.

Leant on the handrail of the ship, Sebille sighed. “I'll live.” She said looking at the Nameless Isle. That place was nothing but a living hell, and still yet, a bigger one had yet to come. “It felt like a betrayal. Deep down. But I helped my people, whether they understand it or not.”

“I never suspected anything of this when I lived with them... this control”

“Most probably because you were as brainwashed as they, Ifan.” he looked at her warily. “ _Dhaleram_ , do you remember?” She tilted her head “What do you think? What would have you done in my place?”

“I'm not an elf, it's not my place”

Sebille rolled her eyes, “Elves messed with your mind to write their memories on you, believe me, you have some saying here.”

Ifan chuckled. “Honestly, I'm only glad that it was not my call. Killing the Mother Tree... well... would the elves feel unconnected now? “

She shrugged. “Who knows what's going to happen, but certainly, we will be a little more free.” She released another deep sigh, and folding her arms, she leant her body on the handrail. The far away volcano of the isle seemed to be in activity, they were running out of time. Two days was probably all what they had. “How is Sandor?”

“Better. Thank you... thank you for saving him.”

“Fane is the one you should thank.” Resting her chin on her hand, she looked at him with a smirk. Ifan ignored her for a while. She was just playing.

“Did you think what you are going to do with him?”

Sebille's words forced him to look at her. He frowned a bit. “What do you mean?”

“Divinity.” She turned on her heels and sat on the handrail. “I don't mind supporting any of you... well, with the exception of Lohse, of course. I don't think it's wise to give Divinity to a demon. But you two...”

Ifan chuckled. “What about Fane?”

“Oh, that bag of bones?. I don't trust something that can live forever.”

Silent, Ifan frowned at her, wondering if what she had just said was exactly what she meant. Divinity would turn anyone into an eternal creature, no matter what. She read his question in his grimace and laughed. “I know. But it's not the same a mortal creature acquiring immortality than one who was born with it. Quite a statement to be said by an elf. Uh?. Believe me. I know what I'm talking.”

Ifan shook his head slowly and smiled. Sebille was as twisted as a tree growing in a cave, but deep inside her, she was a worthy friend. “I don't know. I don't like the idea of one person with so much power. Power corrupts no matter who takes it. Lucian showed me that. Maybe it's the Divine condition itself. Who takes so much power loses their original nature.”

“Mn...” She tilted her head to the other side. “So, you are not going to support Sandor.”

Ifan did not say a word. The concept was the same. No matter who was the holder, all that power was just a source of corruption. To trust Sandor in controlling that amount of power, well, it was to think too far away. But... Could Ifan trust in himself?. Could he believe he could control that monstrosity of power when he could not deal with Rhalic, a decaying God?. Sincerely speaking, he did not know what to do.

He turned on his heels, looking at the same direction than Sebille was facing, and crossed his arms, leaning his weight against the handrail. The Sea was a bit agitated far away in the horizon, and the sunset was colouring everything in golden and red tones.

“Before it's too late...” Sebille said, interrupting his thoughts. “I wanted to say that... I'm... I'm sorry.” Sebille's low voice surprised Ifan.

“For what?”

“A bit of an old business. Roost Anlon.”

Ifan lowered his head and grunted softly. He shrugged in silence.

Sebille looked at his profile. She had seen him after that mission, drowning himself in drudanae at Effie's tavern. That mission had not only killed the damned Roost, but every Lone Wolf in that part of Rivellon. And the only one to blame was she. She never waited for a truce, for a couple of words that, maybe, could make Roost change his mind and avoid that bloodshed. She did not want that. But she could understand Ifan's feelings. To destroy the only family he managed to have in a long time was not easy to cope.

“You know that Roost was not innocent”

Ifan shrugged. “Who is?”

“I hope you can understand my position, I was not going to forgive him beca-”

“I know. No need to say it.” Ifan hurried his words.

“But let me say, that I'm not strange to your situation. That's why I wanted to give you my apologies, now we are going to face the unknown, and we may not return. Or at least, not in the same way.”

Ifan nodded, his eyes still fixated on the Lady Vengeance's floor.

“If it's useful as a consolation, believe me, I know I do not deserve living more than Roost.”

Ifan sighed. “I knew Roost for years. He was capable of terrible things. So are you. So am I.”

He looked at her arm and slowly caressed the names with his fingers. Those were the innocent ones. Like Das Vapour. Like all those that, perhaps, his hunch had wronged. All those contracts that left so many children growing like orphans; children that Roost loved to torture. He remembered the day he found out Roost's secret chamber of tortures. Both had almost ended fighting to death. But somehow, they agreed to reach a better end and stopped that madness. However, Ifan knew Roost would never stop, so he simply willingly chose to look aside. As he always did. A good wolf never gets involved far beyond his own business. Roost had been the man who saved him, giving him something else to live for, something small yet enough to survive another day. It was not Ifan's style to bite the hand that feeds him. It was hard to accept the good and the bad of one man when he could reach such extremes.

“So, we don't deserve anything.” Sebille did not know if what she said was a question or an assertion.

“Who knows who deserves what. We only know it's hard to see one person as a whole. To see their good, to see their bad, to see their all.”

They remained in silence for a while, letting the words sunk deep. Two days was all the time they had before the promising day. They had to rest and recover strength yet. It was better not to let discouraging thoughts to flit around their minds. It was too much energy that they could not afford to waste.

Ifan patted Sebille's back before leaving her alone in the main deck, and headed downstairs. He went straight to his hammock. The middle deck was almost dark, barely illuminated by yellow candles that had no fire and did not burn. Candles made by the Lady Vengeance herself.

“Ifan”

He heard the whisper in the penumbra when his footsteps made the wood creak beneath. He looked at Sandor's hammock and found his face uncovered looking at him.

He smiled and approached him. The wizard had made some free space for Ifan to sit. He accepted that subtle invitation, moving the hammock a little, and caressed Sandor's head for a while until he heard a soft low sound coming from his throat, as if it were a purr. He chuckled.

“Do we have a cat here?”

Sandor took that hand that was caressing him and kissed his bandaged knuckles softly. “Come. Sleep with me tonight.”

Ifan tensed a bit. “Are you sure?”

Sandor nodded. “I know this type of bed is not good enough for both but, I don't need too much space”. He smiled.

Ifan hesitated looking at the others hammocks. Everyone could see everyone's bed.

“Sleep as in _rest”._ Sandor said a bit ashamed after understanding the hesitant behaviour of Ifan.

Ifan blushed fiercely, but the penumbra helped him to hide it. “Of course!. I... I knew. Damn. What do you think of me? By the Seven”. He heard Sandor's soft chuckle.

“What's the matter then?”

Ifan did not want ruin the mood explaining that, yes, he was embarrassed that others could see them sharing a hammock. He could not help it. He could be affectionate with everyone without a bit of shame, but when things ran deeper, it was another thing entirely.

“Nothing”. He finally said.

He walked to his own hammock, took the stool on which he always would put his clothes and armour, and brought it besides Sandor's bed. He started removing his cape and hard boots followed by his several belts. Carefully, he took off his bracers and hesitated to unwrap the bandage around his hands. He did it after a sigh trusting in the penumbra. It followed the shirt, and curious due to the silence, he looked at Sandor. His bright brown eyes were staring at him, delighted by the view in the same way that Ifan used to do with him. He smirked. This was Sandor's revenge.

“Enjoying the show?”. Ifan lowered his voice, several tunes down his average.

Another chuckle. “I'm afraid the light doesn't help”.

“Believe me, it does”.

He removed his pants and wore his sleeping clothes; an old loose shirt and cotton shorts. Sandor compressed himself toward the side, forcing a balance hard to maintain until Ifan joined him. Ifan got into the hammock covering both with a thin blanket. He grunted in delight, enjoying the warmth and the soft scent. Sandor's scent. A scent that was like recent baked bread, smooth and warm. Ifan made a sound of satisfaction, realising how tired he truly was. He looked at Sandor with a smile; the hammock kept swinging for a while. The wizard approached him, cupping Ifan's face with both hands, caressing his beard with his thumbs. He kissed him slowly and tenderly, in silence. In trance, Ifan responded mimicking his movements. The shelter he had always looked for was there, just there. In a stupid hammock.

“Everything can change in few days. I wish...” Sandor whispered, followed by another kiss. Ifan embraced the man as if he were the frailest crystal, and nuzzled his neck, memorising Sandor's scent. "I wish things could be different. We could have been anything else but Godwokens. We wouldn't have to save anything or to fight against anything by now. We could be living another reality without bleeding, without pain, without tiredness.”

Ifan sighed. He did not say anything, there was no need. The world was in its edge, but for him, in these terrible times, things seemed brighter than during all his life. He slid his hands on Sandor's waist and pulled him a bit. The movement tensed Sandor's back, so Ifan stopped and surrounded Sandor's shoulders, squeezing them. That body felt toned under the bed clothes. Ifan smiled.

“Mn. Look at that. You finally got some muscle here.”

“I will never reach your level” Sandor caressed Ifan's dense and strong arm. Under his fingers he could feel sinews and deep scars.

“It's not a competition”. He kissed Sandor's forehead. “I only want you to have all the tools for surviving. I only want you to survive. Always.” Ifan sighed a bit tortured.

They kissed a bit more deeply this time. Once apart, Ifan stared at Sandor's eyes. “Promise me that you will always survive. I _need_ you to survive” he whispered, embracing him desperately, squeezing him. The most precious thing that had happened in his life lately was such prone to getting hurt.

Sandor hugged him back. “I'll do my best.” he whispered.

When Sebille headed to her bed, she glimpsed at Ifan's hammock, frowning at the fact that it was empty. Worried at first, she looked at Sandor's, and despite the blanket, she could easily see that it had extra weight, and that bit of uncovered back was not the wizard's. A bit of jealousy touched her heart. She wanted to have that. To rest in safe arms without second thoughts, without being afraid of a betrayal; hands that were not going to imprint pain in her skin.

Suddenly, she felt a hand on her shoulder blade and looked aside. It was Lohse, with a big smile and that evil darkness looming in her eyes “Hey. Tonight is quite cold, right?. Wanna gather warmth?, it seems the boys thought the same.” She said tilting her head toward Sandor's bed.

Sebille chuckled softly. “Cold. I hardly believe their excuse was... the cold.” She looked at her with an amused half smile and grabbed Lohse's wrist. “Maybe it's true. I've heard that humans need more physicality than other races... something in their nature.”

“Who said that? Did you see how Rhalic is? I mean, humans are supposed to have been made by Rhalic's image and character. I don't see anything cuddling in him.”

Sebille laughed softly. She touched Lohse's nose with her long finger. “Mn. Play along”

Lohse smiled and followed Sebille to her hammock.

 

* * *

“Well. The gods are a lie. I can't say I'm surprised”. Ifan said crossing his arms, face relaxed in scepticism.

The information was there, written on that ancient tablet held in Sandor's trembling hands. He reread the passage several times. He had never been a grand believer, but he always thought that gods were there, somewhere. Their silent answer to his childhood pleas was due to his dirt and his unworthiness, not because they did not care about their children; their better children, that is. The truth that the mortals were mere cattle to feed them filled his soul with emptyness. There was nothing, not even for those that were worthy.

“We don't have time for this”. Sebille said. She took the tablet and threw it on the ancient desk.

“But it's important” Sandor whispered, taking it again. Shoving away the sharp pain of the truth, Sandor inspected the rest of the floating shelves and gathered as much as he could. The origin of life, the truth of Gods, the nature of Anathema, the purpose of races. This place was unique, as it was the information kept in it. If they were going to return alive, this knowledge would open everyone's eyes, would free them, and would allow different lines of research for future scholars. Letting all this knowledge to sink with the Isle was a crime. No matter the shock, he had to prioritize the knowledge, the freedom.

Observing his stubborn movements, Ifan rolled his eyes. More and more tablets were accumulated on the desk. “We are heading to a hard fight, where are you supposed to put all those books and tablets?”

Offended, Sandor shoved the ridiculous amount of books into his own backpack, having almost no room for the tablets. Those had to be carried in his hands. Seeing that the man was struggling to close his bag, Ifan snorted in a vain attempt to avoid an open laugh, and offered his own backpack. Half and half. “I don't see how you are pretending to survive whatever awaits us with all that weight on your back.”

For a survival strategy, Ifan had to convince the rest of the companions to share their free space in their backpacks, because even when he had split the books and tablets into two big groups, it was hard for him to be fast in a fight with all that weight. He could not even imagine how much difficult was going to be for Sandor.

Once the collection of knowledge was finished, they walked through the ancient corridors to enter into a big room where an enormous construct was waiting for them.

"Wow. Nothing here comes small". Lohse said, "makes you wonder about compensations." She chuckled.

Two skeleton figures were standing by the construct's side, their empty eye sockets glowing with source as they were looking at them in a mixture of rage and jealousy.

Ifan clenched his jaw in recognition of his unlucky fellows. Beast and Red were in front of them, demanding to have a second chance that Malady had denied them. Sandor tried to put some sense into them, explaining that he had found an old recipe for a ritual that would make them free. Beast, or what remained of him, hesitated. Freedom was all what he looked for, and deep down, he knew he had made a big mistake joining forces with the GodKing. To end like this, like a puppet of a cruel master, had never been in his plans, but he had thought that with this new power he was going to help his people. His hesitation was stopped when the red lizard, now a yellow bunch of bones, hit the dwarf's shoulder. The promise of having his own empire, whether alive or dead, kept him eager to obey the Godking.

The fight did not await for them to be ready. Everyone was immediately transported to the Well of Ascension, a long and complex Eternal structure made of several narrow bridges crossing over an endless abyss.

For a man who had lived the toughest years of war, this was not even a half of horrors that Ifan could endure. He looked at his companions, specially to Sebille, and nodded at her. Both already knew what to do. "Fane, Sandor. Any of you must run into the Well of Ascension. We'll keep the line." He aimed his crossbow and Afrit appeared by his side. Sebille's daggers were threw up to the air, spinning in an artistic way; when its handles fell on her hands, she squinted; her body was ready for the incoming fight. Sebille looked at Lohse who nodded, knowing why Ifan had omitted her. She had renounced time ago to Divinity , especially after talking with Jahan. She could not put at risk her friends and the world itself, by giving access of divine power to an already powerful demon.

“Well, let's get it over with”. Fane said casting an enormous amount of energy while blue flames floated around him.

Sebille approached Ifan; he looked her up with a smirk. They made a fist bump and glowered at their front, an intimidating pair that had gone to hell and back just to bring its horrors upon everyone who dare to mess with their friends.

And so they started to give the last steps to Divinity. Once their source infused their weapons making them glow in green, they leapt towards their previous friends, now just skeletons of disgrace. Sebille took care of the Red Prince, finding some kind of pleasure in fighting against a lizard who never doubted about slavery. With more regret than pleasure, Ifan tried to put the Beast down, but the man was not only a dwarf hard to kill, but a barbarian. If Ifan allowed him to reach him close, he was done for. His brutal fight style meant that any mistake, even the smallest one, would cost his head.

Fane, Lohse, and Sandor made their path taking down the suddenly appeared constructs by casting overwrought blasts of power, burning them down, freezing them to the frailest point or corroding their insides out. However, while they were advancing, one of the construct grabbed Lohse and threw her back towards Ifan. Completely focused on Beast, Ifan did not notice her until it was too late. She hit him and due to the momentum, she kept rolling on the ground, unconscious. She was going to fall into the abyss that loomed beside the narrow paths towards the Well. Quick in his reaction, Ifan threw himself to the ground in her direction and grabbed her arm just in time before falling, leaving her unconscious body hanging at the heights. Saving Lohse made his guard down, and Beast took advantage, dealing an axe blow on Ifan’s shoulder blade. He screamed, pulling Lohse up with the rage of the pain. Unable to move one arm, he clumsily aimed his crossbow with the other, shooting at the skeletal dwarf from the ground. His life and Lohse’s depended entirely on his source arrows now. 

By that time Sebille destroyed her adversary, leaving behind her a mere pile of bones on the ground. With Afrit and her daggers, she did not need much more time to reduce Beast into a similar pile.

Fane and Sandor kept on advancing, getting closer to the Well, but a last construct appeared in front of them; a great example of the complex Eternal engineering which emanated poison in all directions. Sandor had to stay far away not to risk being poisoned, while Fane, with a firm nod, took care of the construct alone. It was his last chance. Sandor ran toward the Well, his fear of Divinity grew a bit more with each step. So many doubts arose in these last seconds, but he had no choice. As he had never had in his life. Unworthy creatures should not care about choosing.

Finally, his fingers touched the structure. A small, yet incredibly powerful energy burnt his fingertips. However, when the whole power was going to engulf him, a source-spear got stuck in his stomach and a lightning hit him. Electric charges disrupted his mind for a moment, and another spear pierced him. Shocked by the pain, he could not even scream. The spears evaporated into a source mist, and his hands touched his belly, soaked in blood that kept profusely coming out from those two disgusting holes.

He looked up, spotting Dallis and a hooded figure at the distance, and then collapsed on the ground.

 

Dallis destroyed the well and gathered all its power in an artefact, leaving everyone to die in the isle.

In a matter of seconds, the whole place started to fall apart. Sebille reached Fane who had just destroyed the poisoning construct in the same moment that Sandor collapsed. Ifan lost his breathe for a moment when he saw the wizard falling deadly wounded. Ignoring the pain from the deep wound that was almost exposing the bone of his shoulder blade, he ran to Sandor and lifted him. Sandor's bleeding was excessive. He had only a few seconds of life if they were lucky. He dragged his body to Fane and with a desperate voice he ordered him to heal the veins, at least. Sandor needed to stop bleeding _that_ much. With the last bits of energy, Fane healed all what he could, ending too exhausted to even walk, so Sebille helped him, putting his bone arm around her neck while carrying Lohse on her back. She looked worried at Ifan's own blood loss, but the Wayfarer simply shook his head. He knew he could last a bit longer despite dragging Sandor's body in his arms.

With the last bits of energy, the group tried to escape, following a light at the distance; Malady's beacon. However, new enemies appeared. Two vicious Rhalics, a powerful Tir-Cendelius, and a violent Amadia that had not stopped casting spells against them for a single moment. Without much choice, Fane stole source from Lohse and joined the battle with an exhausted Sebille and a dizzy Ifan. They had to fight and win quickly because the isle was falling apart and their energies were getting lower and lower with every effort.

The end of the battle brought Ifan to his knees, grunting while the pain on his back was too much to endure, and the lightness of his head was telling him that he was not going to last longer.

“Don't fucking give up”, Sebille yelled at him. The order activated something in the ex-soldier he had been, and a sudden yet moderated emission of source covered him. He lifted Sandor's body, realising that he was colder than before. The temperature shocked him, but he stood up anyway and kept running with Sebille and Fane by his side. His head felt lighter with every effort done in that crazy race for survival. He only could focus on squeezing that body, as he kept repeating in his mind: _Don't die on me. You promised me you were going to survive._

None of them remembered what happened once they touched the beacon's light.

 

* * *

Sandor awoke alone in his hammock. He tried to sit but he was too weak. Curious by the sharp pain in his belly, he lifted his shirt and saw a new scar on his body. The holes. A fragment of memory came to his mind, grimacing. He looked at his hands, his fingertips were burnt. Nothing of him felt Divine. He looked around. There was no one in the deck. He tried to get up, but the movement of the hammock was enough to dizzy him, so he lay on it again. His fatigue was too much to bear in another position, so he waited for someone to come. He fall asleep several times until he could hear someone coming downstairs, and a smell of roasted chicken and grilled vegetables reached his nostrils. His stomach rumbled.

He turned his head and saw Ifan who had a big smile on his face and a tray with two plates in his hands.

“How's my favourite Godwoken?”

Sandor smiled as he saw the man taking a stool and getting closer. The tray was placed on the stool. Ifan sat on the edge of the hammock, stabilizing its permanent swinging, and waited for Sandor to sit. Once he did it, Ifan wrapped him into a bear hug, squeezing him. Sandor simply buried his face in the curve of Ifan's neck, the most tranquillizing place in all Rivellon. He could perceive how Ifan rubbed his eyes against his shoulder, in silence, and swallowed heavily, containing the angst that he had been experiencing all that time during Sandor's unconscious state. They went apart, and Ifan caressed Sandor's hands until the wizard's stomach rumble interrupted the intimate moment. Ifan chuckled softly.

“Better grab something before it gets cold.”

Ifan offered him a plate and took his own, both started to eat calmly in each other's company.

“What happened?. I just remember the... holes in my stomach, Dallis, and then, the blackness. Am I Divine? Because it feels awful.”

Ifan laughed.“No, you are not. You missed the fun”. His smile lasted some seconds before continuing. “Dallis destroyed the well.”

Sandor left midway the fork that was heading to his mouth. “What?. So she is.... the new Divine?”

Ifan shrugged. “More like she stole the power.”

“What now?”

“Malady gave us some days to rest in here”. He extended his hand to the air, meaning the Lady Vengeance. “We need to recover, gather energy, and chase her down”.

“Where to?”

“Arx”. He smiled with a hint of sadness. Sandor tilted his head, curious. “The city brings me some memories. Related to my time in the Order. It's been many, many, many moons since the last time I put a feet there”.

Once they finished the food, Sandor could finally got up on his feet, always helped by Ifan. He had recovered his energy after eating but he still have a deep pain in his guts. Source wounds were hard to heal, like curse-based wounds, they tended to leave nasty scars and despite being closed with healing magic, the flesh kept a lingering pain for weeks.

Resting most of his weight on Ifan's arms, Sandor changed his bed clothes. He looked with disapproval at his heavy robe—now with two enormous holes in its centre. He sighed swearing at Dallis. So he had to choose a plain shirt and common trousers. He looked like a farmer.

“You need to stop being close to death every time we fight” Ifan said, pitying at the sight of how Sandor covered that new deformed scar on his stomach with the plain shirt.

Sandor chuckled. “It's an irony. So much training in face-to-face combat to be always hit by long-range weapons. Maybe I should stop training with those useless chackrams.”

Ifan frowned a bit and hit Sandor's head tenderly. “Don't be silly, you always get a stab in the back when rogues are around.”

Once ready, they went upstairs where Malady gathered everyone to talk about the current situation. Surrounded by source mist and the particular ectoplasm that used to float in the Hall of Echoes, Malady looked each of them, tired yet proud. She informed what was going to be their main mission once they headed to Arx, without skipping the tiny problem of Lohse. Having Jahan's help was going to do a big difference on that matter. For the rest of the following days, she suggested resting and recovering.

Malady coughed at the end of the speech, some drops of source stained her hand. She answered at Sandor's worried face with a sarcasm and a comment about how it was _he_ who should be more worried about sudden holes appearing in his belly. The joke relaxed everyone, and with that mood, Malady retired herself to rest.

However, resting was the last thing that Sebille had planed for Sandor. As soon as Malady disappeared, she approached the wizard and insisted him to keep on his training, right there in the deck of the Lady Vengeance. His excuses about feeling hurt fell on deaf ears. Strict as a Paladin commander, Sebille pushed the enchanted chakrams on Sandor's chest. Ifan smiled at her, remembering some fragments of his past with Nueleth that he thought forgotten. Unconsciously, he touched his ring necklace, and despite considering Sebille's discipline a bit extreme, he could not oppose her. Sandor had to get used to fight with the lingering pain of source-wounds.

So, for the remaining day, Ifan and Sebille helped Sandor to endure hard training and constant pain despite his exhausted body. It was the best state to train this. Despite breaking his heart at the sight of a still tired Sandor, Ifan knew what Sebille was doing. She was giving him a priceless gift: the key for survival.

While they trained in the quarterdeck, Fane observed them from the forecastle, studying their movements and writing some details of the human and elven physiology on his journal. Behind him, Lohse and Jahan lent on the handrail of the ship, talking in low voice about the challenge they were going to face eventually and all the tricks that demons used to have under their skin.

 

 

At night, or what felt like night in the Hall of Echoes, everyone disappeared after having their dinner. Jahan and Fane went to Dallis’ former chambers, to exchange knowledge and discuss over those black mirrors that were such a challenge for the wizards. Jahan’s opinion on them could be useful.

In the kitchen, Sandor found a bowl full of chocolate, probably Malady’s gift, and excited, he went all over the ship offering the delicious candy. However, besides Jahan, Tarquin, and Fane, he could find no one else in the lower and middle decks. He only met Ifan in the main deck, with a mug of wine in his hands, lent on his elbows on the handrail of the ship, observing in silence the landscape they were overflying.

Sandor approached him and placed a hand on his shoulder, avoiding the healed wound on his back. He offered the bowl to Ifan, full of small black squares with a strong sweet scent. Ifan smiled at him and looked at the bowl, picking some and tasting them. Leaving the bowl on the rail, Sandor mimicked Ifan's pose while enjoying the melt of the sweet in his mouth.

“Nice chocolate” Ifan said.

Sandor nodded repeatedly, soft moan of pleasure while pressing his lips.

Ifan frowned at him, still with a smile. “Why you ate so many at once?”

Sandor nodded, moving his head a bit forward to try to swallow the enormous ball of chocolate in his mouth.

Ifan laughed. “That chocolate is not going to disappear”

“Mn, I've never tasted such a good chocolate. Or maybe it's been a while since the last time I did.”

Ifan drank a sip of his wine and touched Sandor's lips with his finger. Then, he licked it, pretending he had cleaned Sandor's mouth, but he was just being playful. Sandor looked at him with a smirk and said nothing. Both knew that it had been just a whim of a relaxed wolf.

“I wanted to offer the last ones to the rest. But I can't find Lohse or Sebille.”

Ifan chuckled. “They are having their private moment.”

Sandor blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I heard Sebille talking to the ship. Something about carving a special room for her and her companion”. Sandor tilted his head, still not understanding. So Ifan clarified. “Lohse”

Sandor's eyes widened. “Wah. Is there something going on between them?”.

“You can't be so blind, can you?” Ifan shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Scholars”

“Hey!”

Ifan laughed as Sandor's fist bumped his shoulder gently. He offered him his mug. Sandor sipped a bit and gave it back. That wine was of exquisite quality, soft and sweet. Malady had rewarded everyone, it seemed.

“This place gives me the creeps” Ifan said after a moment of silence, surveying the endless dead landscape down the ship. “It looks like a place where only death can exists, but it has its charm. There is something that makes it beautiful and creepy.”

Sandor looked around. Some spirits were walking along the far away hills, in an aimless roam. Others were quiet in lost cliffs, as if they were shocked by the place or the obvious reality of their own death.

“What do you think it's like?” Ifan said.

Sandor blinked. “What?”

“To die. To become a spirit. To end here.” He looked at some trees with crystal leaves that the Lady Vengeance was passing by. “I try to picture myself. What would my spirit do here?. Would it look for my people? Would it be lost in some misty place, unable to find its way here?.” Ifan remained silent for a moment, letting the thoughts sink deep into his soul. He sipped. “Would my people still be here, instead of roaming the forest full of Deathfog?”

Sandor remained silent. “I don't know. My knowledge of death is short.”

“You know… “ Ifan took a moment, hesitating to say it. “When I lost control in the Nameless Isle… what got me into my senses, was mom… mother Melati”.

Sandor looked at him in a quick movement, raised eyebrows, but said nothing.

“She was there, looking at me. _Stop this, child_. She told me. I… I had forgotten her voice. It had passed so many seasons since the last time I heard her, her voice had started to become blur in my memory. But there, in front of me, her spirit… her _voice_ … “ Ifan let a pair of tears to fell, wiping them out with the back of his hand. He smiled nervously and sipped. “I was not aware until that moment how desperately I missed her. You must think it's weird for a human to feel an elf like a mother...”

“Not at all.”

Ifan looked at him with a warm smile and approached him a bit more. Leant on the ship handrail, he managed to be shoulder against shoulder, looking at the desolate ephemeral landscape.

“She was released in that moment. I knew it. The Tree had caught her. Now... I don't know where she is, or if I'll see her again. Do you know what happens with our spirits after long time in the afterlife?”

Sandor shook his head, slowly. “I'm not a necromancer. But so far I've read, there is no consensus about it. Some studies say the spirit dissolves into the nothingness. Others, that it reincarnates. Others… that it's stored somewhere. With what we have learnt about the Gods, I won't be surprised if the spirits end up into a device for Eternals consumption.” Sandor blinked horrified of his own words, and looked at Ifan, afflicted. “I… I'm sorry. I was not thinking...”

Ifan chuckled. Sure, not the best answer he wanted to hear about the future of his mother, but… if it was the truth. It was Sandor's best guess. And he was thankful for his honesty. He leant against Sandor and kissed his temple, nuzzled his hair, and returned to his initial position to sip more wine.

“Have you ever wondered about the destiny of your spirit?” Ifan insisted.

“No. I used to think that death was a peaceful place to be. Now… I don't know.… When I was a child I always thought that my spirit would end up in an endless dark corridor, screaming and running. Eternally.”

Ifan frowned. “Why is that?”

Sandor did not answer. He remained silent for a while.

Ifan sighed. “Well… we are still alive. We need to enjoy and cherish it. “

“With good chocolates and drinks” Sandor said, taking the mug from Ifan's hands and sipped a bit just to give it back.

“With good company” Ifan added, looking fondly at him. He nuzzled Sandor's neck, playful, and then frowned with a smile in his lips. “Now I realise I don't know much of your past.” Ifan said, seeing how Sandor's gesture tensed. He only knew about Daniel Das Vapour, a tutor that the wizard had during his teenage, but he knew about it mostly because it had been his target from an old contract. “I've told you about my parents, about the place I grew up, the Order, and the Lone Wolves.” he chuckled. “I think I've never spoke so much about myself with anyone in my life...” he looked at him, fond smile curving his lips.

“….There's nothing... to say... here...” Sandor averted Ifan's eyes, uncomfortable.

Ifan turned on his heels and gave his back to the landscape of the Hall of Echoes, focusing on Sandor's profile. Every small gesture, every detail, he wanted to notice it.

“What about your parents.”

“They are dead”. Sandor spat out quickly.

Ifan waited in silence for a brief explanation, an anecdote, a bit of detail, but nothing came. He had to encourage it, it seemed. “Who were they? You told me once you were not from scholar linage. What's your _linage_?”

“The dirtiness...”

Ifan frowned. Sandor hunched his shoulders and lowered his head. He was closing himself up. To relax him, Ifan squeezed his rigid shoulder and patted it a couple of times. “Care to explain?”

“I know it's not fair for you …. you told me everything. But… I…”

“Tell me about your father.”

Sandor shook his head. “I've never met him. I don't know who he is... or was. I don't even know if he is alive.”

Ifan nodded. A Bastard. That used to be a heavy label to wear in the scholar circles, full of those assholes, so high in their horses, who happened to come from families with several surnames that were famous in History. Bastards were a shame. “Your mother?”

Silence. He could feel a timid trembling in Sandor's back. He looked at Sandor's hands. They were twisted, pressing finger against finger, nervous. Sandor kept looking down. “Her work was… well....” Sandor remained silent again. “This shames me”

“Why?, whatever your parents did, it's not your fault.”

“No… but it's, sadly, my heritage. Dirty vulgar heritage. In the academy... I came from no noble family. No scholar lineage. Just... this”. His voice shivered. “Ifan... Nobody outside the Academy of Balurik knows this…” Sandor closed his eyes, but he was unable to speak it.

“Sandor?”

“What's your opinion on prostitutes?”

Ifan blinked, surprised for the drastic change of topic, but then, he nodded. “Workers. As long as they are not slaves. Their job is less _dirty_ than mine.” Ifan put a special tone in the adjective. A secret way to tell Sandor that there was nothing dirty in that, and if there was, both of them shared a similar kind of dirtiness.

“And if they are?”

Ifan closed his eyes and frowned, took aback for the implications. He breathed in, took another sip of wine, and relaxed before speaking. “You know what I usually do with those. Poor souls that just need choices. They are even less _dirty_ than me.”

Sandor looked at him by the corner of the eye, pondering his words. “You aren't dirty, Ifan”

“I have my long list of sins. Tell me that sleeping with someone is worse than killing them?”

“Some people deserve dying.”

“Not your tutor….”

Sandor turned and looked at Ifan, surprised.

The man sipped again, a sad smile curving his lips. “I've told you, I won't forgive myself. I'll remember for the sake of both.”

Sandor sighed and leant against the handrail of the ship, in the same posture than Ifan's, giving his back to the landscape. He had his shoulders hunched, his eyes fixated on his feet, and his arms crossed, increasing the tension on them as the seconds passed by.

“I was born in a brothel.” He dropped in a whisper full of shame. He raised his eyes in that precise moment and looked at Ifan who was expecting the story to continue. But Sandor remained silent, probably asking for approval, tormented in his own chagrin.

“Nothing wrong with that.” Ifan said resting his hand in the small of Sandor's back.

Sandor looked down, “ _Everything_ is wrong with that. My mother worked there. She died a couple of years after I was born. They told me she was too old for the work. Her pregnancy was a miracle.. they said.” He smiled bitterly, “more like a tragedy, I'd say . I was too young to remember anything of her. Of course I don't know my father. A… a client”. He sighed, “I was raised by the other workers there, seeing… “ his voice faltered . Ifan's thumb caressing his lower back encouraged him. “… seeing things a child should not… But it was okay. I just… was seeing them. The owner of the brothel wanted to kick me out, but the workers, especially Eleny—a friend of my mother—convinced him to let me stay. He complained about the waste of money that my food and needs represented, so when I was old enough, I started doing the cleaning stuff... you know, scrubbing floors, changing beds, cleaning sheets, helping to prepare the place where the workers were going to... you know.” He smiled nervously. “ _Old enough_ . Five years old.” He remained silent for a moment, his face darkened. “Everything was… decent. For a while. Until the source appeared. And the owner thought.... that...” he swallowed hardly. With trembling hands Sandor's took the mug of wine from Ifan's hand and drank it all at once. He left the empty mug on the handrail. Ifan kept moving his thumb on Sandor's low back. “One day the owner started to offer special surprise services to his noble clients. And I ended… I… I ended up in one of those rooms. _The special surprise_. You know... source sparkles during… and makes them feel… you know.”. He sighed and giggled, nervous, teary eyes. He looked at Ifan just for a second, with shame, and then, looked down at his feet. He swallowed loudly while increasing the tension in his arms that were starting to display green cracks and sparkles. He moved his lips but words did not came, instead, a pair of tears jumped from his eyes.

Ifan rested his other hand on Sandor's forearm, reassuring him. “It's ok. I understand. No need to tell me if you don't want to...”

His soft words encouraged him. He sighed again and swallowed his memories. “I killed the first one. I was so confused and hurt, that my source overloaded. I was a child. Gods. What do you expect from a child growing up with source?.” he closed his eyes. “The owner was furious. _This is bad for business_ , he said. He bought some devices that I had to use in my wrists and ankles to contain the blasts, but their particular design allowed some leaks of source to make clients enjoy….” he rolled his eyes, “always the clients....”. His body was trembling. “It’s true what you said to me time ago, in Fort Joy. I never learnt by my own to control my source, because I had those devices, because what I had to pass through every night… it made me overload... Every. Endless. Night. I… I was so… disgusted with myself, and so tired. And the worst was when my body started to betray me…” Sandor nailed his nervous fingers in his forearms “can you imagine? Pleasure in the middle of such repugnant situation?”

Ifan moved his palm from the small of his back to his shoulder blades, drawing big circles. “No. That wasn't pleasure. It was just body reaction.”

Sandor nodded nervously. “That nightmare lasted years. Until Daniel. He was a well-known scholar from the Isle of Balurik. One night, I was forced by the owner to be his surprise. But when Daniel entered the room and saw me, in the middle of the bed, crying, hurt, too tired for another horrible night... he calmed me down. He didn’t touch me. Furious with the owner, he left the room.” Another pause, another sigh. “Thing is... the brothel was closed soon after that. Daniel had a lot of power in the isle. And he took care of me. I was twelve by then. I knew later that he used to do that….” he smiled with sadness, looking straight into Ifan’s eyes “He used to pretend to be someone interested in using those services to spot the responsible and always ended up helping the people working there. Mainly children. He used to help those who had fewer chances to make it.” Ifan looked down, regrets sinking deep, “I mean, Sourcerers. I met other children like me, sourcerers in bad situations. He gave us a room in his academy, tutors to learn, food, clean clothes. And so I did. Into a mediocre scholar, by accident, I’ve become. But here I am. Knowing several languages and complicated words to make people feel horrible, more horrible than I always feel myself.” He laughed nervously. His body was shaking.

Ifan pulled his shoulder a little bit and hugged him tightly. “I'm glad you shared this with me. Now I can see the good in you, the bad in you. The all in you”. Ifan whispered. He could hear how Sandor broke down gradually. Loud sniffs followed by heavy breathes, his fingers nailing in his shoulder blades where the source wound was still fresh, the tightening of the embrace. The wizard cried on his shoulder, while Ifan's shame for having killed a man who had saved so many people from different nightmares deepened in his soul.

“Please… this is a secret….”

“Of course, dear. I won’t say a word.” Ifan kissed Sandor’s head. They remained a long time in a tight hug, caressing their backs and squeezing their bodies. 

“This shames me so much...” Sandor hissed in a compressed voice.

“Shame, you say” Ifan broke the contact. Curious, Sandor allowed the distance, taking advantage to wipe out his tears. He looked at Ifan while he continued his words. “You know me. You know I’ve done horrible things. Things that shame me too, deeply. But there is this one I never shared with anyone.” Slowly, Ifan took off his steel bracers and started to undo the bandages around his knuckles and wrists. “I’ve done so many wrongs and yet this is what shames me the most… “ He let the bandage fall on the ground and turned his palms up. Both wrists displayed several lines and gross deep cuts.

"These weren't got from any war or contract. I had failed my people, lost everyone. So, I drowned myself in drudanae, wildly. I hadn't control of my hands. They used to tremble permanently. All the guilt, all the ifs... watching what the Order became after the Deathfog... I couldn't deal with all that. I tried _this_ many, many times, but there was always a bastard around that found me just in time to bring me back. My damned moon was so fucked up that I couldn't even do this" he snorted, as Sandor held his hands "then, one of those bastards that found me turned out to be an ex solider of the Order, he used to be under my command back then. He had become a Lone Wolf that was being trained by Roost. He dragged me to him, and... I know this sounds strange, but Roost pitied me. He did not want me to die. I don't know how he convinced me, I can't remember a damned thing because I was so high, always, that... my mind didn't work well. But before I could be clean, I had turned into a Lone Wolf too. The contracts kept me sane for a while. But these.... “ he shook softly his wrists, “these remained. Scars that were all the time telling me that I had failed my people... and I was not even worth dying. And that was also another failure. Because... I always value survival... and yet, in that moment of my life, I couldn't find a single damned reason to keep living. These are the marks of what means to lose any hope.”

Sandor caressed those wrists with his still burnt fingertips, and Ifan shivered. The skin had been healed decades ago, but somehow that part of his body was extremely sensitive. The pain was still lingering in his mind. Then, Sandor pulled him into a long lasting embrace.

For a while, they kept talking about lighter things; a rare book of wolves that Sandor used to read back then in the Academy, a funny anecdote of a silly hunt in which Ifan ended up trapped, the desire for tasting new types of chocolate especially the ones from the Ancient Empire, the magical tradition of the Elven marriage that burns the bark-skin with a symbol representing the partner. So many diverse topics. The mood had been lightened, but now they had a deeper bond. Hours passed by and far from being sleepy, infused with new energies that this link between them had triggered, they headed to the kitchen where they could find snacks to calm down the incipient hunger. Sandor even suggested preparing his favourite blend of tea. 

Sitting around the main table of the middle deck, joking about the absence of Sebille and Lohse, and the extreme focus that Fane had on his books, they shared a couple of extra hours. They were too comfortable to just go to bed and ruin the mood, and deep down, they simply wanted to prevent the tomorrow to come.

In a corner of the dinner room, a long line on the wooden floor shone. They caught the light by the corner of their eyes. Out of the blue, a hatch appeared; a gift that the Lady Vengeance was offering to everyone.

Sandor drank the last part of his tea and ate another square of chocolate. He looked at Ifan who had an amused smile in his face. “Do you want to rest?” he said in a low tone, a new one that Ifan had never heard before.

Ifan raised an eyebrow, curious, “With you? Of course..”

Sandor took his hand, and both descended through the hatch to a small room with a big bed that barely had free space at its sides.

Feeling the pressure of the moment, Sandor turned on his heels and looked up at Ifan. Their height difference and the proximity forced his eyes to arise a bit.

"Ah, a bed. A real one." Ifan said looking at it, and then to Sandor. “so, er... here we are.” Slowly, Ifan leant in, surrounding him with his arms, and kissed him exuberantly. Ifan's eagerness always made Sandor felt a bit uncomfortable. There was no ill-intent in it. Only gentleness and care that, still yet, were impossible not to mix with remnants of dark memories that had still a bitter echo in his flesh. They parted their lips.

Sandor breathed in and out, and followed Ifan, embracing him, his tensed hands on his shoulder blades. Ifan grimaced. Ah, his wound. Sandor lowered his hands to the small of Ifan’s back, giving him access to his own neck. There, Ifan left several small kisses as a way to relax him. It was Ifan after all. 

But as intense as the lone wolf was, his movements surprised him once more. Ifan slid a hand on his hip and a knee between his legs. That was enough for Sandor to freeze; paralysed, eyes shut tight, he could not help but nail his fingers on Ifan’s waist. The wayfarer had looked for a pleasurable contact despite the clothes, while kissing him diligently all along his neck, but that sudden tension made him stop short. He parted and looked at him with tenderness. “I’m sorry... I was carried away... _again_. Damn.” He sighed, nuzzling Sandor’s neck. 

Slowly, with that gentle caress in his neck and random pecks, Sandor started to relax once more. After some minutes, only a slight nervousness remained, making his hands shake a little bit.

“Better?” Ifan asked, looking at him with warm green eyes.

Sandor nodded and hugged him. He wanted to step forward, but he needed to stop bringing the past to the present. He had no idea how to do so. “Tell me, what's the most memorable moments in our journey together?”

Ifan laughed throaty. “I will never forget that time you slipped on Voidwoken ichor and ended up covered in it. There is no memory more memorable than that.”

Pretending to be offended, Sandor drew back and looked at him with open wide eyes and his jaw down, bumping Ifan's shoulder with his fist. Ifan cracked into laugher, squeezing him dearly.

“I can't believe you are bringing _that_ in a moment like _this._ ”

Ifan kept laughing a bit more, wiping out the small tears jumping out of the corner of his eyes, as he recovered his breath. “Don't blame me. It was memorable as hell. Your face so undignified. Never saw anyone looking so angry for a dirty robe.”

"The smell was terrible. It took dozens of spells to remove it", Sandor hid his face in Ifan's chest, shaking his head, smiling as much as him. Now he was not nervous anymore.

“There was also that time in the Undertavern...”

Sandor looked at him, more serious this time, “Which one?. There were so many, with so much alcohol in the middle....”

Ifan chuckled. “You know which one... the one that started all this wonderful mess....” Sandor looked down a bit, biting his lower lip. “Or that day I had to carry those damned fragments of the mirror to the Graveyard, and it was raining hard, and your clothes...um...” Ifan blushed a bit, looking aside. “I like spending time with you.” Ifan caressed Sandor's hair, running his fingers there where the new grey hairs were growing in his fringe. “What about you? What's been memorable to you?”

Sandor buried his face in Ifan's chest, his voice came muffled. “The first time you channelled my source. That day you made me smoke... and kiss you... for the first time. The first time... we slept together in all that messy situation with the Lizards... " he stopped for a moment and rubbed his cheek against Ifan's shirt. "The most memorable thing was always you. So many wonderful first times with you... and I thought... I had run out of them.”

Ifan smiled, rubbing his chin on Sandor's head. Aside from their whispers, the only sound was the friction of fabric between their bodies.

“Dear one.” Ifan whispered taking Sandor's hands. They were still shaking a bit. Ifan pulled him closer, his body pressing against Sandor's, and leant in to kiss him. It was a gentle kiss that grew primal, wild even, despite Ifan's will. Uncomfortable, Sandor moved his face away and pushed him a bit. Realising about his clumsy movement, Ifan hugged him, stroking his back tenderly. "I'm sorry. Damn. You told me to go slowly and I keep failing at it.” He chuckled, his shaking chest relaxing Sandor “Let me tell you that...you make this life so much bearable.” He leant back to take a sight of the wizard. His bright green eyes full of desire travelled over every inch of Sandor's torso, and his fingers traced the shape of Sandor's lips. “I know I shouldn't stare... but... I can't stop. I wish you could see yourself as I see you now. You are incredible.”

Sandor caressed Ifan's neck, stroking his scars tenderly. There were so many of them all over Ifan's body. This time, Ifan responded without the impatient need, pulling Sandor down to sit on the edge of the bed, close to him.

“I crave you” Ifan whispered in Sandor's ear and lowered his lips to kiss his neck. “Every step of the way”. Another kiss. “I've wanted you”. A long dry lick behind Sandor's ear, “since the moment we met”, a trail of small pecks running down to his shoulder. “I've tried to conceal it“, he lifted his head and kissed him in his mouth, deeply “... but...” more pecks in his lips and cheeks “damn, it was hard.”

“Ifan” Sandor's voice shivered full of emotion.

Ifan undressed him slowly. The warmth of his own body ensured Sandor to feel no cold, and the warmth of his gaze ensured him to feel no embarrassment. With trembling hands, Sandor tried to do the same on his partner, struggling with some buckles in Ifan's many belts. The hum in his ears, the sudden thirsty in his mouth soaring his throat, the uncontrollable beat of his heart, the bitter-sweet mixture of dark and lewd thoughts were making things a bit more complicated for Sandor. His hands were a mess when he tried to remove Ifan's trousers. Chuckling, Ifan remained passive, only caressing randomly Sandor's cheeks or shoulders while the Wizard kept his focus on the process of undressing him.

Sandor seemed to be as concentrated as he usually was with one of his books, but a shadow of teenage shame was colouring his face. Finally, he could pull Ifan's tunic overhead, revealing the muscular body of the wayfarer, all scars and sinews and some deep bite marks. It was not a surprise, their proximity had already allowed them to guess each other's body to a certain degree.

Blushing just a bit, Ifan grinned – eager – pointed teeth parting, and enveloped Sandor in his arms, pushing him to the bed. This was the first time that they were sharing an embrace bare skin. However, as soon as Ifan let his weight fall on Sandor, the wizard tensed once again, and any enthusiastic movement or pleasent sound stopped suddenly. That abrupt tension was a deep scar in Sandor's mind.

Ifan laid by his side resting his head on one hand and rubbed big circles over Sandor's chest, avoiding his recent scars on his belly. They were still painful at the touch, he was certain of it considering the one on his shoulder blade. He kept caressing that soft—scholar—skin for a while, observing him. There was a big star-like scar of burnt flesh on his stomach, three small ones on his chest, one of them over his heart, and contrasting the whitish metal with the wizard's copper skin, Ifan found the pendant of a silver claw. He reached it out, and played with it while giving Sandor time to recover. A tender idea born from his emotional state crossed Ifan's mind, but he kept silent. It was an idea that had been flitting around his mind for a long time, getting a clear shape day after day, whether he wanted it to or not.

“I'm sorry...” Sandor finally said.

Ifan kissed his cheek, smiling. “Let's not rush. What do you want to do?. I know I just want you.”

Sandor sat on the bed and trembled, pressing his legs against his chest. Ifan did the same, getting closer to him, embracing him to keep him warm. He wrapped them both with a thin blanket, letting Sandor rest his head on the curve of Ifan's neck. Sandor barely could believe that this kind of gentleness existed in this world.

Enjoying the herb scent of Ifan's bare skin, Sandor caressed his chest, memorizing every detail of his scarred body, until he finally bumped with the medallions and necklaces. He touched the amulet he had giving him in Driftwood, at the Burning Prophet monument. Back then, he had thought that Ifan would leave them for good. “Do you want me to take them off?” Ifan asked.

Sandor shook his head, his fringe tickling Ifan's neck. “Do some of these have a meaning or funny anecdotes associated with?”

Ifan parted a bit, took off the medallions and gave them all to Sandor. Then, he moved a little bit behind Sandor, just enough to let his chin rest on his shoulder, and wrapped both their bodies again with the blanket. “All of them. It's a long story for each. Pick one.”

Sandor chose the humble chain with a simple ring in it. Ifan sighed heavily and nuzzled Sandor's neck before speaking.

“Nueleth.”

“What?”

“A Paladin... this was...um.... my wedding's ring” Sandor tensed his body suddenly, but Ifan squeezed him softly under the blanket, leaving a peck on his bare shoulder. “She died. Long time ago.”

“She.. must have been important, to keep it. Tell me about her.”

Ifan sighed loudly. “We met in the Order. She was a hell of a Paladin. One of the main protectors of Lucian. Also, one of the few elves that reached so high.”

Sandor smiled at the sight of the ring on his palm. _An elf_. Of course it had to be an elf. “But you told me that it was forbidden to fraternize inside the Order.”

Ifan rolled his eyes, “Well, it was a stupid order to follow.... anyway.”

Sandor chuckled. “How was she? What happened to her?”

“She was like a dragon. Fire and force and intensity. Two years before the Deathfog, Lucian sent her to a small town in the Holy Mountains, near to the Bane Lands. She was gathering intel of the Black Ring activities. I told her to go with more people, but she was too confident to listen to me. It was her and her group of Paladins. They were not even a dozen, but it was known that a Paladin had a fight force of ten Magisters and twenty Black Ring members. Before night, thousands of Black Ring groups attacked. She defended the small town, because that was a Paladin's duty. _To serve the people_ , she usually used to say _._ She... she fell there with all her group. Black Ring bombed that zone from afar. The town was destroyed. And I never could recover, at least, a piece of her body to preserve her memories, her last thoughts... that's the saddest part of the story. So I keep the ring. For her, for me. To remember her, to honour her life as she deserved. And because... well... I miss her, a lot.” Ifan squeezed him placing another kiss in his shoulder.

“Why did you never tell me about her?”

“I did... I just... I didn't give you details because … I was scared.”

Sandor turned his face awkwardly to look at Ifan over his own shoulder, frowning. “What?. Why?”

“Because I thought that, maybe, you wouldn't understand. I love her. Despite all this time... I keep loving her. I cried her loss. I know she won't return.... but I won't abandon her memories. That's all what she left to me. Humans usually don't understand that. They don't have the habit of honouring their dead with memories. They prefer to forget what gives them pain.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?” Ifan's voice had an inflexion full of doubts.

“Yes. It's like books. What's the objective of books but to preserve, through time, the knowledge as well as the lives that lived once?. All those books you claim useless have thousands of memories like these. Unlike elves, humans can't preserve memories in their flesh, so that's why we write books. They bring to the present what was lost in the past. They are what's left behind after a life extinguishes. Human mind is weak, it tends to forget, and as you said, specially if it means too much pain to bear. But it's natural to treasure what's loved even if it brings pain. We, humans, are a living paradox, most of the time. Weak minds and heart we have, but yet, the echoes of the memories always linger, even when we want to forget; nobody can deny that, nobody can stop that. They are lying if they say so.” Sandor twisted his torso a bit inside the embrace, and put the necklace around Ifan's neck again. The pendant rested on Ifan's scarred skin, so he pressed his palm against that ring, feeling the gentle beat of Ifan's heart. “I would never ask you to forget her. She has shared with you many of your first times. And probably part of the way you are has been shaped by her. I can only thank her.”

Touched, Ifan swallowed heavily as a tear ran along his cheek. He looked at the wizard's lips and then at his sad brown eyes. “Sandor”. He whispered, surrendered. He leant in to kiss him, squeezing their embrace as a sudden fever burnt his skin.

Ifan took the rest of his medallions from Sandor's hands and placed them aside. They fell on the ground quickly while their kiss got deeper and wetter. But when Ifan pulled Sandor against him, desperate to have more of his skin touching his, Sandor's body tensed like a stone. _Again_. He stopped, parting his mouth just to pant in a ragged way while their foreheads touched each other. Sandor kept looking aside, frustrated.

“I'm sor-” Sandor's words were interrupted by a peck.

“I'm so tired too. Let's rest. That's what we were going to do after all”.

Sandor's smile trembled, silently grateful for the gesture.

They got into the bed and cuddled each other, ready to fall asleep in the delight of sharing their bare warmth. They would have plenty of time to explore their intimacy. There was no need for rush.

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

 

With the Lady Vengeance crashed, and its pieces spread all over the South-west of Arx, they had to find a temporary place where to rest while they investigated Dallis' whereabouts in the city. Thanks to Lohse, and some nomad bards that she found among the pilgrims in the surrounding forest, she discovered that Arx's slums had a famous Inn in disguise of a seedy tavern. That place had been _officially_ closed a century ago, but it had never stopped working. The authorities simply forgot the place, one of the most abandoned areas of the city, as it used to happen with all the rich cities when it comes to their slums.

The Inn was called The Secret Corner, and its entrance was across the old dock, closed down decades ago. Despite its shabby and rough look, they almost found no rooms available. They had to rent _what the owner could turn into a room_ without pretensions of any kind. Sebille and Lohse took the bigger one, an old laundry room that had no use for years, at least it allowed one big bed in it, quite a privilege considering that Sandor and Ifan ended into an improvised room that seemed to have been a storeroom until their arrival. It had only space for two small beds that fit together and occupied all the extension of the little room. To climb them, they had to crawl from the end of the beds' feet . A single large bed would have been more comfortable, but they had been warned of the availability of the rooms, it was useless to complain now.

Fane did not mind to spread his books and artefacts in the main hall of the tavern, hidden in a corner table where he could keep reading and studying night and day, while observing the behaviour of these lower creatures. From time to time he could fake falling asleep on the table, in order to avoid rising suspicions about his own nature. For him, this small place was all what he could ask for.

As soon as they were accommodated, they planned a scheme to investigate inside the city and gather intel. Fane was going to search for any worthy information in the main library of the Cathedral. Ifan, with some connections among the Paladins due to their shared military past, was given the task to understand the conflict between the two factions of the Order, and specially to talk with Lord Kemm, expecting to gain his favour. Lohse kept developing her network while speaking with several nomad artists that were still performing around. Rumours of any type, from the outside or inside the city could be of great use. Any information that the city elves could share, would be collected by Sebille. Rumours about a bigger library than the one of the Cathedral had reached Sandor's ears. The owner of such treasure, a place where more information about Godwoken or black mirrors could be piled up, was the famous scholar Cranley Huwbert, whose residence was in Arx. Nobody doubted that Sandor was going to convince the man to share some of his most precious books.

Late at evening, when everyone returned from their long day of investigation, they gathered around Fane's table, hidden in a corner of the tavern-inn, and had their dinner. As usual, weak to his compulsion of collecting books, Sandor barely could walk through the tavern with his enormous bag, full to the brim of books. He unloaded some in front of Fane, they were special gifts he received from Huwbert as a gesture of appreciation for meeting a fellow so interested in his knowledge. Huwbert's excuse made Ifan laugh mischievously and joked about it.

The only one who had acquired vital information so far had been Sebille: the dwarves were stocking Deathfog in the sewers, and its potential detonation was increasing over time. They needed to stop them as soon as possible. Arx was not safe with a whole cargo of Deathfog underground. So they decided that the following day was going to be focused on a trip to the sewers.

“Eww” Sandor said, his face contorted in repulsion. “Can't we just go somewhere else?”

“What? Too smelly and sticky for your fine scholar robes?” Ifan said.

“Eww...”

“I thought you got used to it since that time you slipped on Voidwoken ichor.”

Opening wide his eyes, Sandor slapped softly Ifan's shoulder, who cracked into a fully laugh. “Why are you always bringing this up?”

Ifan ate a bit of his dinner with a big smile in his face.

“I will leave such experience to you all” Fane said, “I'm here with too many important things to read to go into such... ordeals”

“Sure”, Lohse looked at Fane with a sigh, knowing she could not avoid the horrible trip ahead. “you sensed the _smelly_ business, right?." she laughed, "Well, it makes sense. The best way to put a Deathfog cargo in a place like Arx with so much security, it's underground. Also, the best way to make it... _boomground.”_ She laughed a little bit more, everyone looking at her with sour faces. "You know, all of you have a terrible _scent_ of humour".

“So, it's decided then “ Sebille added, “Tomorrow we'll head to the sewers. I'm done for today. I need some rest. Good night” she said, winking at Lohse and leaving the place.

With a silly smile on her face, Lohse followed after. Ifan and Sandor remained there, with their dishes empty. They were now drinking wine.

“I've also talked with Huwbert about some unusual events. He explained to me that some strange pillars have been appearing from no where. He assumed they were innocent monuments, because they are usually spotted where a historical massacre took place, as a commemoration or tribute to those long gone.”

Ifan frowned and shook his head. “No. I bet it's Black Ring's doings.”

“Do you think so?. We didn't find anything like this in all our previous encounters...”

“Did he say something about where these places were? can we check on them?”

Sandor took his map from his bag and spread it on the table. “Yes. He knows three of them. One of them is close the pilgrims campsite. Here outside the city.”

Ifan looked at it and stood with one clean movement. He gathered his crossbow, resting against the wall until then, and put it on his back. “I'm going to investigate that....”

“Mn, those pillars are magical?” Fane said looking at Sandor.

“I don't know. Maybe.”

The undead nodded. He needed to check that personally. Maybe it was nothing related to the Black Ring but to the Eternals. The three left the table when a dwarf walked straight into them, observing Ifan with a big foxy smile .

“I was looking for you!. Rumours say that the great White Fang was in town.”

Ifan's face became serious and hard. He did not bother to correct the man. He kept observing him with his dark dangerous eyes, his outlaw mask that could inspire fear even in Sandor. An appearance that seemed to be so out of his gentle character, but still yet, it was part of him. It was that darkness that had always dwelt in Ifan's heart since the day that the Deathfog bombs detonated.

“I have a work for you. I need that my father-in-law could have... an accident. The price is not a problem. Think a number, I'll pay double.”

Ifan looked down at his feet for a moment, and then at the dwarf, striding to him. “I'm not that man. Not anymore. And I won't became him again for the likes of you. Silver Claw is dead for new contracts.” He walked past, but the dwarf, furious, could not restrain his mouth and insulted him. Ifan's footsteps halted. The wayfarer turned to look at the man with his eyes slightly more open than usual, his green iris brightened as his pupil contracted to become just a small point. He put his hand on the knife of his belt, and walked towards the dwarf who started to feel what truly fear meant.

“Maybe I can indulge myself in a last on-going contract. Your name.”

The dwarf trembled. “What?”

Without even noticing the movement of Ifan's arms, the man had already a blade pressing dangerously against his throat. Ifan cruel eyes were bestial, ruthless predator playing with his prey a moment before slaughtering.

“Your. Name.” Ifan repeated in a slower, huskier voice.

“Do...Dorian.... G-Gall”

Ifan raised an eyebrow. With his free hand he opened the man's tunic and looked inside its inner pockets, finding some letters. He opened one of them to read the name and be sure of the dwarf's word.

“It must be my lucky day. I have a pending contract to kill someone called that way.” he half smiled, bare canine teeth.

In panic, the dwarf ran away. Ifan's face changed immediately. He moved his head and a cracking noise echoed in his neck. He sheathed his knife and walked to the barman. He asked him to send a message to Dorian Gall's father-in-law, and added to it the letter that had taken from the dwarf. It was a good proof showing how Dorian wanted to get rid of that old man.

“Very well, let's go” Ifan said with a gentle smile again, and they left the city.

The wild forests that demarcated the beginning of Stormdales and the ending of Arx were intimidating for Sandor, but for Ifan were exactly like those in which he grew. He moved through the vast extension of trees as confident as usual, knowing exactly what corner to avoid, what path to follow, what poisonous plant not to touch. They climbed the ravine, taking special care not to fall into the mist of Deathfog that had spread between the mountains. When they reached the exact place marked in Sandor's map, they found a monolith, as tall as a human, which had a floating crystal in the top. It glowed in a soft purple. Fane looked at the pillar, slowly walking around it, and touched it warily, but he felt nothing. By casting some spells on it, Sandor inspected the power inside the monolith, which sucked a bit of his source. Just a little, probably enough to sustain the floating crystal at the top. Nothing in it felt wrong. At the feet of the pillar, a plaque made of tin was written in elvish. “For all those that were lost and corrupted”, Ifan read aloud.

The message calmed Ifan down. Arms akimbo, he squinted around. The place was in middle of a wild forest, far enough from Arx and its dangers related to the Order. Maybe was this monolith a kind of elven tribute to those who died in the Deathfog, river above?. Ifan studied the pillar a bit longer; he had never seen that craftsmanship among his people before. Elves used not to be much into innovations and artistic vanguards. But the place and the message were correct, they made sense to him. He looked at Sandor, expecting his opinion.

“It doesn't feel wrong.” the wizard said.

“Indeed. A waste of material for something so-” Fane stopped his words when Ifan's hard look fell on him. “Whatever. It seems to be just a humble monument.”

More relaxed about the nature of these pillars, they returned to the city.

When they passed through the gates of Arx, many paladins were gathered, separating the hundreds of bodies that had been collected along the city and piling them up in mounds to burn later.

Ifan could not avoid to stop short at front of three enormous pile of corpses that they were burning. Silent monks, civilians, and paladins, all of them victims of the Voidwokens, but piled up in different groups, as a way to offer a precarious privilege in death . To be burnt in a paladin pile seemed to mean some kind of twisted honour. Ifan twitched his lips. What an honour. He remained in silence, looking at the flesh burnt and sensing its usual smell. Burnt human flesh smelt so different than elven one.

Only after a couple of seconds, Fane and Sandor realised that the man had stopped some steps behind them. They looked back and then at each other.

“I need to read some books, I don't have time for this.” Fane excused himself, striding away. Sandor simply nodded.

He walked closer to Ifan, some steps behind him. The wayfarer looked back at him over his own shoulder and half smiled. A silent invitation. However, Sandor preferred to stay there, observing the morbid scene from afar, the distance allowed him to deal a bit better with the smell and the nauseas.

“This is Divinity." Ifan finally said. His voice was low but clear. "Divinity entrusted to one person. No one can escape from corruption. Gods, good people, soldiers. Rottenness. That's what's as natural as death. There is no exception.”

Sandor looked at his profile for a moment. Ifan's eyes were sad and hardened at the same time.

“When I started this journey, I had no purpose. I had lost it in the Deathfog. But now, after all we've been through, I can see what's needed.” He walked back, getting closer, and looked at Sandor, a bit down due to the height difference. “We need to end Divinity. A Divine is not so different than a crazy Eternal King leading this world, or a greedy Demon. Rivellon has suffered enough. We need to destroy that power, or share it with everyone.”

Sandor sighed and looked at the burning mountains of corpses.

“Like the fresh green shoots that push through the earth after a violent forest fire. Those shoots will grow into better things than the weed they are replacing. It can't be worse.” Ifan added.

“The whole power in one sole person, that's a recipe for disaster, indeed. But a lot of power in everyone... is that wise?. The Black Ring will have these powers. The Lizards too. A powerful empire which has been becoming stronger over the decades... are they allowed to have more power?. The same Empire that thinks that elven slaves are a fine luxury now that there are so few of them?”

“The people who fight on the other side will have those powers too... Do you prefer things like now?”

“No, Ifan”, Sandor frowned, soothing his gesture after a sigh. “I agree with you on that matter. A Divine is a nightmare sooner or later. But sharing Divinity worries me. The powerful will become more powerful... I wish I could destroy it.”

“But we'll still need it for fighting the Voidwoken.” Sandor looked down. “A change is as good as rest, mother Melati used to tell me. And it's true for the big things in life as it is for the little.”

Sandor raised his eyes and observed him warily. Sandor had experienced changes in his life that were just the starting point of endless nightmares. Change was not always a blessing, but he could understand Ifan's perspective. After so much pain endured and a pessimist future ahead, he did not want to break that small seed of hope that Ifan had been caring of for so long. If he wanted to believe in that, so let it be.

“That's why....” Ifan caressed one of his necklaces—the one with several silver claws—and ripped it away. He looked at it on his palm and then at Sandor, “Would you mind to give me back yours?” Sandor raised his eyebrows, surprised as his eyes displayed a bit of fear. “I'll give you something later. I promise.”

Hesitant, Sandor unfasten the chain and gave it to him. Only then he realised that the single claw made of silver was a missing piece of Ifan's. The man had prepared that necklace time ago before giving it to him.

Ifan made a knot with both necklaces and threw them into the burning pile.

“Aw” Sandor said softly.

Ifan turned a bit on his heels and looked at Sandor, ignoring the fire. “Forget that. Silver Claw has died”. His eyes were soft, full of wonder. A shadow of a smile curved slightly his lips. “Since Fort Joy, everything has changed. My mind, my emotions, my life as a whole. I... we have a purpose right now, but when this is over, I'll became into another man. A man who has stopped to do what others say.”

Sandor frowned a bit lost in his words. “That means.... that your life of contracts... is over?”

He nodded, relief all over his face. “Everyone in life makes choices. I'm doing it right now. I'm choosing to go a different way from now on. I've made mistakes. I _compounded_ them. Now there is a chance to make _real_ amends. And I intend to seize it.”

Sandor smiled sadly and nodded. _Change_. Ifan was following the first steps into a big change in his life. It was impossible not to fear it. Change had always been an omen for disgrace and disaster in Sandor's life. However, he could understand it. When the situation was unbearable, there was only one possibility: change. Radical change. It was the last resort.

Sandor looked at Ifan's profile, trying to memorising it. He wanted to remember the moment when the beginning of the end started. When Ifan was still this version, and not another, probably improved but unbound to him. The exact moment when he started to be left behind. Because in the end, what Sandor feared the most was _that._ A change so radical in Ifan's life that would remove his feelings for him, and would discard a so useless companion. Sandor was, after all, an expendable in anyone's life.

Sadness stroke him deeply. He decided to do his best to be contented with what time left still. For laments, he had the rest of his life.

“Let's go to rest for now” Sandor said, lugubrious and sad, and walked beside Ifan with his head down.

Change was never a good thing.

 

* * *

Everyone was coughing, slowly standing on their feet again, awaiting for healing spells that would help them to recover from the Isabeil's poison. Their skins were burnt, covered with painful ulcers all over, and their nerves were still in shock due to the long torture they had just endured. But at least, the pain was worthy; they had destroyed the mad advisor of Queen Justinia. After pulling themselves together, Lohse and Sandor cast massive healing spells over the group. The waves of magical water that hit them offered an instant relief, and in Ifan's case, a continue sneezing.

“We need to do something with...” Ifan sneezed again, “... these valves. We can't risk to let them spread Deathfog”

“Let me see” Sebille approached the machine and hit some parts to stuck the valve. She tried to turn it, being unable to do so. Then, she broke the valve itself. It was enough to prevent any accident so far. They had to inform the Paladins now, so they could take any precaution needed with such delicate cargo.

While Sebille worked on the valves, a sudden glint caught by the corner of Sandor's eyes forced him to investigate the walls around Isabeil's deadly pool. Examining their hardness, Sandor caressed a wall, finding he could let his hand pass through. A holographic wall.

Beyond that ephemeral barrier they found the Queen, furious and angry killing several Isabeil's servants. She talked to the group, explaining how she had been a victim of her former advisor's influence. Despite her excuses, Ifan did not buy it. Justinia could have been under mind control, but the first thought, that she could have an important advantage in the war for power over Rivellon with the use of Deathfog, had nothing to do with such influence. She had pondered the option, almost seduced by it.

Ifan sneezed, remembering that, of course, powerful people would never acknowledge their own mistakes. Instead, they would use and discard other people as if they were pieces of a board-game. The final result was always the same, innocent people suffering to no end. It was important that, for once, the heavy and slow hammer of justice could fall upon those irresponsible powerful leaders. Ifan hardened his face, unsheathed his dagger, and killed the Queen before any of his companions could say a word to stop him. When the Queen fell after a guttural sound, he looked at his warm bloody hand, and he felt odd.

Something was completely out of its place. He felt the same emotion when, recently recruited, killed that young soldier in the battle field, the son of a merchant who used to trade with the elves. Those dark eyes came to his memory, vivid, highly defined. Dark eyes that cast doubts of how much a person can change, lifeless eyes giving nothing more than the raw, festered truth reflected in them. His companions remained silent for a moment, then, they passed by the Queen's body, as if nothing of that would matter.

Sandor cast a cleaning spell on Ifan's hands and helped him to sheathe the dagger. He squeezed those hands for a moment and pulled him to pass through the corridor.

They explored the hallways beyond the Queen's body and found Isabeil's laboratory; a place with many big tubes where some corpses were submerged. At the sight of it, Lohse preferred not to step farther into the laboratory and waited for her companions at the entrance. Sebille and Ifan observed the dead bodies just for a moment and kept glancing around, not sure what they were looking for. They had lived through too many horrors to be touched by mere corpses. It was only Sandor who, horror-stricken, was petrified at front of one of those tubes.

Curious, Sebille approached him and observed the corpse. A naked human—as old as Sandor or Ifan—was there. It was hard to guess anything else without clothes or elements that could add more information about his potential background. What she could easily see was that his body was unblemished. It was safe to infer that the man certainly had never been a fighter.

“Do you know him?”

Sebille's voice caught Ifan's attention, who approached Sandor, sneezing.

“Ianverg. He was... a scholar. In my academy.”

“Friend of yours?” Ifan asked seriously. Or at least, as serious as his damned sneezes allowed him.

Sandor shook his head slowly. “I had no friends back then”. He sighed, touching the glass of the tube. That was not a fate he wished to anyone. Being subject of scientific experimentation was torture.

He turned around and neared the desks, skimming the many loosen pages on it. His heartbeat started to speed up.

“No. No, no, no, no, no”. Ifan and Sebille looked at him suddenly.

What started as a soft stroke over the pages, became into a fast movement over a bunch. He gathered many, many sheets of paper and piled them up in a corner, moving some while holding others in his hands. Crescendoing, the wizard kept grabbing sheets of paper, reading them quickly, and piled them up in his arms. He even took some books and after a quick look inside their content, shook his head in disbelief. His eyes were wet, his hands were trembling. He looked at Sebille and Ifan, “Take every book and report you see here. Now.”

Ifan and Sebille looked one another in silent acknowledgement, and followed the order.

In a couple of minutes, several piles of books were placed on an empty desk. It would be a challenge to carry that amount of books with them. But if Sandor had said that it was important in such tensed way, it meant something else; this was not about his usual habit of collecting books from everywhere. When the task was finished, and everything readable was piled up on an empty desk, they looked at Sandor. Close to a Black Ring Totem, the man was sitting in front of a ramshackle table, his elbows resting on its surface, his hands on his head, paralysed while frantically reading in silence. Whatever he was reading there, it was exacerbating every nerve of the wizard.

Ifan approached him, trying to read over Sandor's shoulder the text that was making him so nervous. It was a language he could not understand, probably one of the many that scholars used to be fluent in. However, he could bet it was the Black Ring's language, or if not, a close one. He sneezed startling Sandor.

“Sorry. What's this is all about?” He said tilting his head towards the pages.

Sandor shook his head and extended the report to him. “The author....”

Ifan could read that perfectly. _Daniel Das Vapour._ He sneezed. “Damn.”

Sebille took the paper from Ifan's hands and read it, finding no meaning in any word there. “What's this?”

“Daniel was a good man. A brilliant mind.” Sandor stood up from the desk and walked to the centre of the laboratory, observing the tubes with dead specimens. “He used his life to research on Source, on how to use it, how to control it, how to avoid summoning Voidwoken, how to make _our_ lives better. He saw sourcerers like people, like people who deserved to have a _normal_ life.” He clenched his jaw, flames appeared in his fingers. “A life that nobody else would give us!” He blasted the tubes with a pyroball, startling everyone.

Lohse peeped out from the door with curious eyes. “Guys? Is everything okay?”

Sebille shook her head in silence, and made a gesture to keep outside.

“And these bloody Black Ring took his research, and twisted it into this!." Another pyroblast broke more tubes. The festering bodies fell from the broken tubes on the ground, and a foul smell spread in the room. "Daniel was all his life saving sourcerers! Not using them like lab-rats!”. Source cracks spread suddenly all over Sandor's skin, as his eyes shone in greenish source. “Abhorrent. Despicable. Sickening!. All these experiments on sourcerers!. And using his work!. It's a disgrace!” A moderate blast of source, mostly transformed into a kinetic wave, spread in all directions pushing everyone out of balance. The laboratory's walls trembled.

“Sandor, calm down. You mustn't blast here. We are surrounded by Deathfog cargoes” Ifan said, and sneezed.

The wizard looked up at the ceiling, and breathed in and out, slowly diminishing the source emanations of his body. “Take all the books, all the reports, everything you see here. We can't let them have anything of this. Daniel worked so hard.... I won't allow his work to end up used with this... wicked purpose”.

“Can't we just burn this down?” Sebille suggested.

“No!” Sandor looked at her with hard eyes that disconcerted her. The weak wizard was usually everything but intimidating, yet, in that moment, he inspired fear. “This is all what's left of my tutor. All his life is here. And the Black Ring misused it. I... won't let it happen. I'll keep all this.”

Ifan looked down, feeling once more the weight of regrets, and obediently, he collected the reports and books. After an hour, the whole group left the sewers with their backpacks full to the brim and books in their hands.

 

* * *

Once they returned to the tavern, all his companions helped Sandor to unload their bags full of books in the room that he and Ifan shared. With all the reports and books that could not be placed somewhere else but over the beds, Sandor locked himself up. He needed to focus on those reports first. A burning need had taking over him, stronger than any hunger.

Leaving the man surrounded by a mess of books in such tiny room, they went downstairs to the main hall of the inn and took a seat around Fane's table. Exhausted after Isabeil's fight, they had a copious dinner, and without Sandor's presence, updated Fane about what they had found in the sewers.

“So, do you know this guy that Sandor is so stressed about?” Lohse said eating a piece of bread.

Ifan looked at her and then at his food, moving his fork in loosed circles. “Yes. It seems that this man took care of him when he was a child.”

“I see, he is like a father” Sebille added.

Ifan did not correct the misunderstanding. It was not his place to do so. He played with the fork a bit longer, and then accepted the fact that he had lost his appetite, so he pushed his plate away and drank a bit of wine.

“He was a genius.” Fane said with a book in his fleshed hand, still using that human disguise. Sandor had lent him that book time ago. It was a compendium of Das Vapour's first works related to source. “The man was closer than anyone I know to understand the true nature of Source. He even says here--", he shook the book softly, "--that source is a fuel for latent potency that everyone has. That means that everyone is a potential sourcerer somehow. Which makes sense with what we had discovered at the Academy.”

“Well, why don't we look for him?” Lohse said with enthusiasm, clapping her hands once, “If he knows so much, maybe he can help us with all this mess of source and Godking and yadda yadda, and Sandor can meet him once again, wonderful scene of a father-and-son-like reunion.”

“Impossible” Ifan's voice was croaky. He lowered his wine mug. “I killed him time ago”.

Silence suddenly spread on the table. All their movements were stopped for a fraction of second, frozen in time. Sebille rested her head in one hand, and smiled wryly “My, my. The plot thickens.”

“But... wasn't he a good man?” Lohse said.

Ifan closed his eyes for a moment and then, his sight fell onto the mug. His fingers tapped the handle sofly. “It was a contract. Hired by Magisters”

“Ah, it makes sense now. Those savages.” Fane shook his head and returned to his book.

“Does.... does he know about this?” Sebille poured a bit more of wine on Ifan's mug. She knew he needed it.

“Yes.”

“Well” Sebille smiled impishly “that makes the plot thinner”

“Still...”

They remained silent for a while. There was nothing to do when death had already taken lives.

Once the dinner was over, Lohse and Sebille went to their room, but Ifan preferred to remain with Fane in that table that was now full of books and notes. The weight of regrets prevented him to head to his room, where a mortified Sandor was trying desperately to collect the fragments of his tutor's memories.

“You should go to sleep” Fane said at some point after midnight. Ifan's eyelids were falling heavily.

“Nevermind. I'll sleep here. Wake me up with the first sunbeams.”

Fane raised the eyebrows of his borrowed human face while Ifan crossed his arms on the table and buried his face there. He did not want to see Sandor, to see that sadness in his always sad eyes; a sadness whose main responsible was him. He fidgeted his necklaces, finding the one that Sandor had given to him time ago, and closed his palm around it. He remembered the Queen, his unsheathed dagger, the automatic movement of his body to kill her. He wanted to be a different man, but all the mistakes he had ever done would always follow him. Forever. They were, after all, marked all over his skin, buried underneath, festering deep down. That was something impossible to change. Cannot leash a wolf. _Lone Wolves be damned._

After a couple of hours, Sandor walked down the stairs and appeared in front of the table. He looked at Ifan's back, surprised, and then to Fane. He spoke with Fane in sign language; a language that every person considered an average scholar knew. It was a pretty useful means of communication to have long and intense discussions in the middle of silent libraries.

 _Why he is sleeping here?._ Sandor frowned, shaking his head softly, palm up close to his face and then he drew it down.

 _He didn't want to bother you. He may have thought that you were going to spend all night reading._ Fane did not want to go into details. That was going to suffice.

 _What a silly man._ Thumb and pinky finger shaking near to his nose. _He is tired._ Sandor let his hands fall a bit along his chest.

 _Carry him to the room_. Fane placed his thumb on his chin.

Sandor made the sign of heaviness in such exaggerated way that bumped Ifan's back, and even though the touch was light, it startled him. Ifan immediately looked over his shoulder, spotting Sandor's figure, and then he relaxed. He rubbed his face and groaned in tiredness. Stretching his back made it pop, several cracking sounds along his spine released its tension. To sleep on a table, in a sitting position, was not the best rest his body needed.

“I'm sorry. I was talking to Fane. You don't need to sleep here, I've just put some order in the room.”

Sleepy eyes, Ifan nodded and with a silent gesture of good nights, he left the table. Sandor looked at Fane, worried. “Is there something wrong with him?”

“No. Certainly, nothing to do with being responsible of the assassination of a genius scholar such as Das Vapour”. Fane patted a book on the table. “By the way, I need to borrow you his other books.”

Sandor blinked, still processing the information. “Sure. Tomorrow... I'll... uh... lend you those. Good night” He said short, and went upstairs.

 

The first thing he saw when he stepped into the room was Ifan in his bed clothes with crossed arms, observing the place he was supposed to rest covered with books and reports. He glimpsed at Sandor but could not maintain the eye contact. “I thought you said you had put some order”.

“The other bed is free. We can share it, it's not as if we had never done it.”

Ifan looked down, silent. The idea, for the first time, did not seem to excite him. After a long sigh, he climbed into bed, and forced himself to be as small as possible, compressed against its edge. He gave his back to Sandor, who sat on the bed, continued reading. Or at least, he was trying to do so.

To perceive Ifan with such odd behaviour, so distant and silent, began to interfere with his reading. Ifan was not hugging him, he had not smiled once since they returned from the sewers, and his silent, lonely demeanour was an indicator that something was truly wrong with him. Sandor closed his book and put it on the other bed, just right there at his side. He touched Ifan's shoulder and the contact made the man shrink suddenly. The simple touch became into a silent caress, moving his thumb, as thousand of times Ifan had done to him and only then, shyly, Ifan moved his head just to see him over his own shoulder. Encouraged, he slowly turned over. He wrapped his arms around Sandor's waist and buried his face in the crook of his hip.

Sandor understood. He caressed Ifan's head, playing with his hair. More grey hairs had grew since the first time they met, especially in his sideburns. They were the most rebel ones.

“Ifan. I've told you once. Daniel was never like a father. I wanted him to be, yes, because I had no family, but he didn't want so. Never. He was my tutor. My teacher.” He felt Ifan's squeeze, full of regrets. “And it was not you, but the Magisters.”

Ifan closed his eyes. He knew Sandor was being just gentle. As usual. But such argument was a lame excuse. He had always been a Lone Wolf who decided his contracts based on bad hunches. Das Vapour had been his biggest mistake after the Deathfog. For a long time, some tempting ideas about how to amend the lands infested by Deathfog had been fleeting around his mind. The mere thought used to keep his hopes high, considering that, one day, he would fix a little bit such enormous wrong. But Das Vapour was impossible to amend. There was no way to recover, at least, a bit of all what Sandor had lost with that tutor's death.

Ifan did not say anything; no words could heal the wound he had inflicted unconsciously, so he just tightened his hug. Sandor took the book once again and kept reading while caressing that messy hair of Ifan. It was enough for that moment. It had to be.

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

Malady fell on her knees despite Ifan's grip around her arm.

"It's done" her voice was hoarse. She took some seconds to gather enough energy and stood proudly once more. She looked at Lohse who was still in shock, her darkened eyes wide open, her hands trembling. Sebille was rubbing Lohse's back, giving to her the small comfort she could.

"Thousands of souls.... extinguished." Lohse stuttered.

"At least it's done. Now we'll face this damned demon" Sebille helped Lohse to stand and looked at her companions. Ifan was with his crossbow at the ready; Sandor squeezed his staff.

With the last bits of Source that Malady could gather, she opened a long yet slim portal and wished them luck, specially looking at Lohse, and walked through it. She had done her part, weakening an ancient demon at expense of too much of her own source. It was clear that Malady truly liked Lohse.

"Let's do this" Lohse whispered, her enthusiasm absent.

The four of them walked to the main door of the Doctor's mansion. Sebille touched its thick wooden surface with her hand and extended an arm on the air which bumped into Ifan's chest. He raised an eyebrow and looked at her.

"You mustn't enter."

"Uh?"

"We are risking enough going with Lohse."

Frowning, Sandor looked at Ifan who had his eyes fixed on Sebille. She was full of determination and did not averted that heavy look of the Wayfarer. "What's the meaning of this?" Sandor asked to both.

"Yes. What's this?" Ifan placed his crossbow on his back, dismissing his offensive attitude.

"You are a _Dhaleram_ ". Sebille rose her chin a little bit, emphasizing the height difference between Ifan and she. Her voice tone hid some degree of threat.

Ifan crossed his arms looking her up. "What with it?"

"Care to fill me in?" Sandor asked as confused as Lohse.

"He mustn't be near demons. He is prone to possession."

"Why?" Sandor looked at Ifan who lift his arms in the air, a gesture of annoyance.

"Let's say he was part of elven rituals that weaken the natural resistance that living creatures have against possession."

"This is ridiculous". Ifan said looking aside.

"Are you denying it?" Sebille smiled wryly. She was right, and deep down Ifan knew it too. " Do you remember the little crazy God in your head? And his exaggerated reactions that almost killed Sandor?.

Ifan lowered his head, frowning, his hands in tight fists. Sandor touched Ifan's forearm gently.

"Fine, fine. But call Fane. You won't get too far, two against a demon...." He said glimpsing at Lohse. Her darker eyes were a proof that she was not going to maintain control for too long. Specially in front of the Demon itself.

The doors of the mansion opened violently, an invitation that would not last beyond a couple of minutes. There was not time for calling Fane and waiting for him. Ifan bit his lower lip. He could not turn his back and leave them that way. His experience was telling him that this group was destined to fail. The only true fighter there was Sebille, but she was going to face a demon and its possessed puppet, who was more than a mere acquaintance. That fight was going to be hard for her. In her shoes, it would be so for him too. Lohse was impossible to count as a fighter. He knew she was going to lose her mind at the moment she would face the demon. And Sandor was not a necromancer, able to control demons and damned creatures. Elements were only a distraction for them. The worst team combination for this fight. The worst, indeed.

Ifan growled and summoned Afrit. "Take him with you. He will use all my source" Ifan's right hand glowed brightly, an intense green, and placed it on the back of the big shabby wolf. His fur turned into green flames and his whole presence become incredibly powerful, never losing his gentle amber eyes. A thread of energy linked his back with his master's chest. It was visible just for a second. Then, Ifan summoned his devastating spell, floating source-crossbows which were ready to shoot its destructive source-arrows in all directions. The crossbows remained in the air for a moment and then they become a ball of pure source that penetrated Afrit's body. "There you get, boy." He patted Afrit's head. "Protect them".

Everyone entered the mansion, and as soon as they put a foot inside, the door shut down violently. On the other side, Ifan remained for a little while in front of the entrance. He was feeling uneasy. Even though Afrit was with them, it was not the same. He sighed and sat on the ground, aside the entrance. He placed his arms over his knees, hunched shoulders, and closed his eyes, focusing only on Afrit's source alterations and on his needs for powerful spells.

 

The fight was long and exhausting. Even Sebille, trained in the perfect Arts of War of the Ancient Empire, was reaching her limit. Fighting against an arch-demon was not the same than against a whole troop of lizards from the House of War. Since the moment Adramalik abandoned his human shape, and despite his weakness, Lohse lost her will, taking side against her companions. Now it was only Sandor, Sebille, and Afrit; they had no option but to attack her, leaving her wounded and unconscious on the ground . The fight continued with the three of them, starting to feel the first symptoms of exhaustion.

At some point during the encounter, they became outnumbered by the demon's slaves and its minions. Desperate, using all the power that his master was sharing with him, Afrit attacked the Demon as much as he could and weakened the monstrosities he had summoned. He even killed several servants, slaves of the demon. But the soul-wolf had not an endless source of power, so the longer the fight, the weaker he became. Exhausted, using his last bits of energy, Afrit summoned the source-crossbows spell, destroying two of the three minions, and while the arrows distracted Adramalik, the wolf managed to rip one of its arms off before disappearing.

Knowing they were alone now, Sandor and Sebille worked in extreme coordination. After all, those long training sessions had not been useless. Where she needed a fragile spot, he cast ice, weakening it. When she needed a distraction, he summoned lighting storms that could annoy the demon and make it focus on him. When Sebille got harm, Sandor cast strong healing spells on her. They were a murderous combination of magic and melee; yet, it was not enough for reducing an arch-demon easily.

Tired, in an attempt to recover energy for a counter-attack, Sebille retired from the front line and stood besides Sandor, taking her breath. With free access to the combat field, Sandor unlocked his unstable source. He hit the staff on the ground repeatedly, as his eyes shone in green-source and several green cracks glowed on his skin. A thick barrier arose over the demon and Sandor, leaving outside Sebille and Lohse, who was still unconscious. The air inside the magical dome started to freeze, small crystals floating around them appeared, while their warm breathes turned into white mist. The temperature lowered drastically and a violent storm electrified everything inside the dome. Two blasts of source hit the demon that threatened its balance. In that exact moment, Sandor attacked Adramalik with ice-bolts that became electrified through the air, but when they hit the demon, nothing but a soft growl could be heard. It seemed that it had not been more than a mere tickle.

Casting a huge amount of source, Sandor invoked a wild snow storm inside the dome, shards of ice hitting everywhere. Adramalik counter-attacked by casting infernal fire. The ground was suddenly covered in cursed flames, reaching all along the mansion, outside the dome. Worried for the consequences of it, Sandor had to break the barrier. Now the fight returned to the room extension. With so many water puddles around, Sandor froze them to stop the fire spreading. But in doing so, he did not count on the physical approach of the demon, who leaped into him when he was beginning to cast a new storm of ice shards. Adramalik hit him so violently, that Sandor was threw several meters back, impacting against a wall. He screamed as he felt some bones break, and fell on the ground, barely conscious.

“Dammit”. Sebille sighed. Now everything depended on her. She burst into a maniacal dance, attacking the monster and bathing herself in her own blood and Adramalik's ichor. The fight stopped being magical and became extremely physical . After some minutes that lasted like hours, she finally delivered the last blow with her needle in middle of Adramalik's forehead, and the beast fell disappearing in a thick dark smoke. She released all her tension with a sigh, and fell on her knees, breathing freely.

Surrounded by the calm after the violent effects of a typhoon, they remained quiet in the ground for a while, taking their breath, recovering their nerves and strength. Sandor had managed to turn on his back on the ground and use some healing spells on his bones, never in his life caring less for the mess of blood and ichor and guts he was laying on. Sebille simply rested her back against a wall, observing Lohse's unconscious body. She was anxious to know if the bard was finally free.

Some minutes later, the doors of the mansion opened, and the sound of quick strides reverberated in the wooden floor. It was Ifan whose agitated walk stopped short at the hall entrance, observing with horror the blood and ichor spread around. For a moment his breath stopped when he saw everyone downed, but the wry smile in Sebille face gave him peace immediately. She shook her head and with a grunt, stood on her feet once again. She approached Lohse, inspecting with care her body. It seemed okay. All the attacks had not been aimed to vital parts, nothing that some healing spells could not fix.

"Lohse needs attention." She said, worn out, "I'll carry her to the Lady Vengeance. I'll see if Malady can confirm she is clean.” Sebille lifted Lohse in her arms and hissed. She had some serious bleeding, but elven physiology made the process slow, like sap bleeding from a trunk. It was needed several days of unattended wounds to be at risk. “And certainly I could use some healing and a good long rest too" she added. Ifan tried to help her, but she shook her head. “No. Thanks. You need to investigate this mansion in case there are more people like Lohse here. I'll go.”

She left the place limping while Ifan approached Sandor. He relaxed at the sight of the man who was simply resting on a thick carpet of guts and foul liquids, observing him, completely exhausted. Ifan could not feel Sandor's source at all. The wizard was as drained as he used to be after his massive uncontrollable blasts, but this time Ifan had also felt the astounding amount that he had handled during the fight. Ifan looked down at him with a smirk on his face and crossed his arms.

“You are getting too comfy with the ichor and the ground, I thought you had learned how to avoid those.”

Sandor chuckled without energy. He extended a swaying hand in the air, still feeling echoes of the pain of broken bones all over his body. Without disgust, Ifan took that arm and pulled him up without effort, using the momentum to hug him dearly. Tired, Sandor sighed burying his face in Ifan's neck, gathering with that gesture a minimum amount of motivation to stand on his feet and walk. Ifan smiled at the tired figure of Sandor, resting most of his weight on the staff which was now used as a support. The useless, weak, and unstable man he had met in Fort Joy was now something else, more powerful, more inspiring. Or so he thought at that moment, watching his tired yet sublime demeanour. Perhaps Ifan was only a mere victim of the depth of his own feelings for him.

They still had to inspect the mansion. There was a small possibility that more slaves under the Doctor's influence, or survivors from all his experiments, could be found in the basement. Despite the tiredness, Sandor gathered the strength to went over the mansion with the help of his companion.

Underground, they found the bard from Driftwood, traumatised and without voice. In another cell, Jahan, barely standing on his feet. Going deep down the spiral stairs, they ran into a room covered in blood blisters and veins that surrounded several treasures and ancient artefacts. A Silent Monk was there, cleaning swords and old armours, putting them inside their corresponding cabinets, and restarting the process with the next artefact. Their presence did not alter the Silent Monk's attention.

Sandor looked at him in detail; he was not different than the others. Stitched lips, clouded eyes, dark circles under his eyes, a symbol on his forehead, no voice. Like all the others, he was unable to listen, to understand, to speak. However, there was something familiar in him. Sandor touched his shoulder, but the servant remained cleaning a dagger without changing his posture. Sandor observed those clouded eyes and projected himself into that fate, what a silent inner torture had to be to end like this. To be trapped in one's body, in one's mind.

"Can you heard me?" He said softly. For a brief moment, just a fraction of a second, the Silent Monk stopped. He almost looked at him. But before he could react, Ifan had already slit the servant's throat.

Sandor blinked. "No" he whispered as an automatic response, a word that came to his lips without even thinking about it.

Ifan lay the corpse on the ground with kindness, without letting it drop, and looked at Sandor. "Do you know how to heal them?” Sandor shook his head slowly. “Better a merciful death than living like an emotionless slave. This is not life." Ifan's eyes returned to the dead Silent Monk, remembering that elven one he had found in Driftwood, looking for her child. He felt so repulsed at the sight of these aberrations. Live or die, the in-between was an abomination.

Sandor did not answered and remained observing the lifeless body too. Ifan activated his spirit vision, looking around wishing to find the last remnants of the servant before heading to the Hall of Echoes, but there was nothing. Maybe he had been gone long time ago, maybe it was immediately vanished once he was set free. He closed his eyes and the green mist emanating from his pupils disappeared. He looked at Sandor, who tired, was now lending his weight against a desk, his sight lost in the corpse.

"Is something wrong?" Ifan said.

"I think... I think I knew him."

"What?"

Sandor tried to crouch, but his tired legs faltered, and he fell on his knees. He touched the Silent Monk's face, turning his jaw. The features deformation was so extreme that it was hard to be sure. "If it's Greg... he was like me. A child rescued by Daniel. He was a sourcerer, but his power was stable. He used to disappear from the academy for long periods of time. When he'd return, he was most of the time lost in his own thoughts, observing through the window for hours, silent, a bit unconnected. One day he never came back. Gods... almost... two decades ago..."

Ifan approached him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Believe me, it's merciful. That was not life."

"This is a nightmare." He touched the man's forehead, observing the symbol on it. "It would have been me.”

Ifan kept observing the corpse, but now a paralysing fear started to spread slowly on the back of his mind. To kill Sandor like this... In a blink of an eye, the same images that Rhalic had infused him time ago appeared at his front. The deformed and lifeless body of Sandor, festering. Ifan blinked several times to clean that image from his mind and rubbed his forehead. He was also exhausted.

“We are done here”. Ifan said.

With a tremendous effort, climbing along his staff, Sandor stood up, but his balance was unstable. At the first steps it was most likely he would trip. So that, Ifan knelt at his front, offering his back as an invitation to carry him on piggyback. Initially Sandor rejected the idea, but Ifan convinced him with his smooth words. As soon as Sandor was balanced on that broader back, he fall sleep. Ifan chuckled. _Scholars_.

The first thing Ifan did once he put a step in the Lady Vengeance was to clean Sandor and let him rest in his hammock. Despite his own tiredness, Ifan did not went to rest yet, he needed to check Lohse through Malady first. According to her words, the bard was almost free of the demon's influence. There was, like any wound, a scar in her soul. A weak spot where other demons could exploit. But for now, she was as clean as she could possibly be.

He returned to the middle deck carrying several healing potions and staples and went straight to Sebille's hammock. He had imagined that the woman would have gone to rest immediately after leaving Lohse in Malady's charge. And he was right. He found the elf asleep, still bleeding.

He took a stool and sat close to her. Extremely careful, he removed part of Sebille's clothes that covered her stomach, and he found it. A wound of three cursed claws. Oh, he knew how hardly cursed wounds heal. He focused the small bits of source that were regenerated since he had given everything to Afrit, a couple of hours ago, and cast a precarious blessing on it. He cleaned the wound with sceptics cloths soaked in healing potion, and forced the bark-skin to keep closed with some metal staples. He had closed Nueleth's wounds for many years. He was so familiar with treating bark-skin as he was with his own flesh.

“At first I was going to react piercing my needle in your throat. Thank my tiredness, that forced me to think about it instead of doing it.” Sebille whispered.

Ifan chuckled, working slowly in the staples, trying to make it as painless as possible. Even though he knew that, like him, Sebille had grown to be pain-resistant. “Lucky me.”

“Some news?”

Ifan shook his head. “Lohse is resting, same as Sandor. They are squishy.”

Sebille laughed softly, relaxed. She lifted her head a bit to see her wound and raised her eyebrows. “Impressive work.”

“Thank you.” Ifan said staring at her, giving to his words a meaning beyond the compliment. She extended her hand and caressed his cheek, scratching his beard. Then, she patted it a bit roughly.

Sebille laughed .“I can't believe how you survived for so long. Your heart is as weak as a chicken's knees.”

With a wry smile, Ifan shook his head and pinched Sebille's wound. She exclaimed playfully pretending that touch had hurt her seriously.

 

* * *

He left the Lady Vengeance after a brief rest. He stepped through the portal from the Hall of Echoes and jumped down to where the ship had crashed weeks ago. This time the smell of the forest was fresh, no remnants of smoke. He headed to Arx. He could not help indulge himself to enjoy the forest and share some meals with pilgrims. He was accustomed to this temporal camaraderie. Strangers that crossed their path for a moment, shared some food, a fire, a couple of stories, and then parted ways in the morning. He lived so many years that aimless life. For a moment he returned to his younger self, sad and lost, but still yet enduring life. The melancholic sentiment lasted what his stew did. Before leaving the camp and focusing on his main task, he gave all his money to those generous people and resumed his path to Arx. 

He went straight to the Magister Barracks. He saluted at some paladins—old comrades back in his time as part of the Order—and looked for Lord Kemm. Ifan offered his expertise as a hunter to search in their basement what the Magister had been hiding so carefully. Lord Kemm appraised his enthusiasm and gave him permission to proceed. Although it was not wise to commend himself into a new task without recovering all his source, the faster he could collect information, the higher the chances to find Dallis. They were already losing many days with their recovery after Adramalik's fight.

Activated spirit vision, Ifan walked along the corridors of the twisted building, gathering anything that could be useful--such as Magister reports or official documents--and solving every challenge found in his way. He was resolved to reach the lowest level of the Vault.

There, an enormous library was displayed; books covered each wall from the ground to the ceiling. He could not help but think in telling Sandor about this place, but before he could imagine the wizard's face in front of a library as big as this one, his eyes were caught by the unmistakable figure of the White Magister Reimond at the end of the room. Before he could cover himself, the Magister had already sensed his scent.

The fight was not delayed. If Ifan had reached the bottom of the Barracks, it was obvious that he knew enough to be a danger for Dallis' real plans, so Reimond attacked him. For a fraction of a second, Ifan regretted having not recovered his strength fully. He called Afrit with the last bit of source that had regenerated in his short rest at the Lady Vengeance, and fought the White Magister. However, the damned man was not alone, three Gheists appeared out of nowhere breaking their chameleon spells. Ifan smirked. Just what he needed for Tarquin.

After a short but intense fight, the violence stopped when three arrows finally pierced Reimond’s chest, and his body fell on the ground like a rock. The other arrows had targeted the Gheists, hitting their legs and arms to make them stuck against the wall, crucified. Restricted in its movement, one of them shrieked. The penetrating sound had frozen Ifan’s blood, and like an automaton, his survival reaction—cultivated along these years—acted before he could think. A second wave of arrows was immediately discharged against that Gheist, killing it on the spot.

Ifan lowered his crossbow when nothing else was left alive with the exception of the remaining two Gheists. Then, he noted a sharp pain at his left side of the chest, and he looked down. No wonder it was hurting like hell. A long cut had ruined his leather armour from the top chest to his hip hinge, and it was slowly becoming soaked. He pressed his flesh to reduce the blood loss, and walked closer the Gheists. With the extreme of his crossbow, he pushed the creature's cheek to move it aside and inspected its profile.

Their bodies and faces were so disfigured that it was impossible to distinguish if they were humans or elves or even lizards. Mutilated and transformed, their unique behaviour was to attack everything on sight. From the back of his belt, he took a device that Tarquin had given to him time ago. It was a collar and a small box that required a little bit of his own blood or source to make the creature obedient to that person. A prototype developed by the necromancer under Dallis' orders that had never been successful. Yet it had been improved lately, or that was what Tarquin told him in order to calm him down.

Ifan felt a deep blow in his guts when he fastened the collars around those creatures that were struggling to be free from his piercing arrows. He was so deeply against treating life this way, yet, somehow; he had convinced himself that this was for a greater good. The thought had consumed his mind slowly but unstoppably since that night he met that Elven Silent Monk, looking for her child and being confused by the fire warmth. The obsession had grown lately when images of a festering Sandor used to interrupt his thoughts.

What if this horror of Silent Monks continued after they stopped Divinity? What if this living weapons were too attractive for everyone?. What if this weapon creation became popular? What if the Lizards could have access to it too?. To wait Magisters to simply stop using this tool—or that others could not be tempted to start using it—especially when it had proved to be so effective, was naïve. Sourcerers were still being captured and sent to Fort Joy. These atrocities were still happening. He could not help thinking the matter in a more personal way. What if one day, one of his friends becomes into this monstrosity?. He could not bear the thought of killing them. To kill Sandor. No. He could not.

This was needed. It was a preventive measure. With a clean movement of his hands, he activated the box and a long leash made of source appeared, reaching the collars. His pulse trembled. The image of Alexandar crossed his mind and made him stop short. How much of this procedure seemed to be Alexandar’s doings?. He felt his mouth bitter and observed the Gheists, troubled. Was it truly worthy?.

For so many years he had been killing just because there was a stupid sheet of a contract in the middle. From that, he had learnt that living without principles had its consequences, and it had cost him that heavy stone full of guilt in his stomach which appeared every time he heard the name Daniel das Vapour. He had left that obedient wolf behind, burnt among Voidwoken corpses and dead people. He was now a better person. He wanted to. He had to. He could not afford to start a path similar to Alexandar’s. There had to be another way. Sandor's existence had convinced him that there was always another way, hidden somewhere. 

Closing his eyes tight, he dropped the box, unsheathed his dagger and killed the remaining Gheists. They had had enough of that nightmare of a false life. He promised to himself that he was going to stop the Magisters, at any cost, and with them, these atrocities. To keep torturing these victims who had lost any freedom meant just piling up more suffering. He was going to protect the people, and in doing so, he was going to ensure nobody would feel tempted to turn sourcerers into those abominations. _That_ had to be the another way that he was looking for, the one he wanted to choose. Harder but still yet, another option.

Once he returned to the main entrance of the Barrack, Ifan informed briefly what he had found to Lord Kemm, who simply dismissed him in a blink of an eye without paying much attention to his bleeding state. Tired and wounded, he opted to go to the Inn instead of Lady Vengeance. He was counting on Fane to heal him.

To his surprise, the first thing he spotted when he entered to the tavern was Sandor in front of Fane, both surrounded by books in the usual corner table, reading in silence. He approached them with a slight limping, always pressing his wound with a hand.

“I see that you are awake” Ifan said, his voice came out with certain difficulty.

Sandor looked at him with a fond, tired smile that turned into a frown. “Why are you wounded?”

Ifan looked down at his own torso and winced.

"Ah, this?. It's just a scratch."

His leather armour was soaked in blood, and a small trail of little red drops was behind him. He was bleeding more profusely than he had thought. With a groan, he put his backpack on the table, where he had threw all the gathered diaries and reports found during his investigation in the Magister barracks. A side of the bag was stained with blood too. Without delay, Sandor pushed Ifan into a chair, opened his coat and lifted his shirt. A deep long wound was on his chest, it started close to the heart and reached his hip bone. It was deep enough to know that, with his current exhausted level of source, Sandor could not be able to heal it, let alone without leaving a scar.

He placed his hand on the wound anyway and cast a healing spell made of source which trembled, appearing and disappearing in an unstable flickering, while glow started to fade slowly. The spell was being performed incompletely, so Fane, offended by such mediocre display of magic, pushed Sandor aside gently and finished it, closing the skin of the wound into a perfectly smooth surface. Or at least as smooth as Ifan's skin before the cut. By that time, Ifan could not stop sneezing. He needed a bath urgently.

And so he did. He went upstairs and returned after some minutes with his hair wet and his skin fresh, wearing his most casual clothes and his bandaged wrists. A light dizziness was annoying him, so that he sat at the end of the table, where Sandor and Fane had made a bit of free room among several small piles of books, and he ordered some food to the barman.

The three of them discussed about Reimond's diary and the many reports and information that Ifan had gathered in the lowest level of the Magister Barracks. Dallis had raised Braccus Rex, and the responsible of such feat had been no other than Tarquin. The news did not surprised them. Their mysterious and shady ally was always playing along the dangerous edge of life and death, he had never concealed it. The reports also explained that something powerful was beyond the end of the Path of Blood, a test that any faithful person should take, not without asking Arhu beforehand. Probably a measure to let Lucian's protector discourage the decision. It was written everywhere that passing through the path alive was impossible.

After reading several reports, silence remained for a while, each of them thinking about what action to take.

“Who are the most powerful people in this city?” Fane asked.

Sandor looked at Ifan, who was still chewing. He swallowed faster than he wanted to, and choked. After a couple of coughs, he spoke. “On security matters, Arhu, the mysterious wizard of this city. He is the protector of Lucian's tomb too. But Lord Kemm informed me that he went missing recently. Then you have Lord Kemm himself.” Ifan wrinkled his nose, “Economically speaking you have Sanguinia Tell, she is a loan shark. No merchant in half Rivellon has no debts with her.”

“She sounds a good ally to have.” Sandor said.

Ifan shook his head. “For you?, no. She is famous for her hatred towards wizards. Arhu and she have always had... quite arguments back in my days of commander.”

“So, she knows you.” Fane say, more as an affirmation than a question.

Ifan moved his lips without saying anything. He rolled his eyes tilting his head and a slight blush coloured his cheek. In that moment Sandor opened wide his eyes, getting as a hint of what Ifan was trying to say.

Conscious of the misunderstanding, Ifan shook his head in an exaggerated way, moving his hand in the same way. “No, no, no, no. It's not like _that._ But yes. She knows me. I know her... she was an important financial supporter of the Order in this part of Rivellon. She used to visit the barracks quite often and ask where and how her money was spent. Ugh.” Ifan rubbed his face. He truly did want to avoid her at any cost.

“Nothing more? Nobody else?” Fane said.

“There was a good engineer too. He had some political influence back then, but I don't know if he still lives here. He was pretty close to develop a flying ship.”

“Flying?” Sandor blinked.

Ifan nodded, smiling. “Quite impressive. It would have been such a military advantage over the Black Ring... but Deathfog development had more inner support, as we know.” he cleared his voice and kept eating.

“Well, so. Lord Kemm and this Sanguinia Tell.” Fane said tapping his finger on his chin. “There is nothing more to do so far. I would suggest to wait for Lohse and Sebille to recover completely, and for you two to rest as well. That fight against the demon has drained you all and put you in shameful condition.” Fane's eyebrows went up, as his squinted eyes were cast to Sandor. Certainly, that mediocre display of healing power was an irrefutable proof that he needed a long rest. "And as if it weren't enough, you engaged into some stupid brawl." His eyes went to Ifan.

"Brawl, you say?. I gathered important information, didn't I?"

"Now, now" Sandor said moving both hands repeatedly, stopping what could escalate too fast between those two.

They needed proper rest. That was out of question. However, it would not harm to spend the rest of the day planning and developing alternative strategies. Brainstorming, they decided several different approaches to continue their mission, and then they went to sleep.

 

As usual, Sandor sat inside the bed and read a book while Ifan cleaned his crossbow at the end of the bed. They kept silent. Maybe it was the tiredness. Or maybe it was the dark thoughts related to those Gheists that still lurked around in Ifan's mind.

Once he finished with the maintenance of his weapon, Ifan slid into bed and turned to press his nose against Sandor's hip; the wizard put the book on his lap and looked down at him.

“Are you alright?” Sandor asked, placing his hand on Ifan’s head and caressed his hair.

“Mnhm. I’m healed. remember?”

Sandor twisted his mouth. That was an evasive answer. He was not sure if Ifan was dealing with something else or if the fight against Adramalik had been continuing in his head. After all, they had never talked about Sebille’s strange warning at the mansion entrance.

“I don’t know why you didn’t wait for any of us. Or why you didn’t go with Fane.”

“Mhn?”, face compressed against that hip, Ifan raised an eyebrow, but he did not mind to open his eyes. He was nuzzling Sandor's waist as his arms surrounded him. Ifan slid his hand under Sandor's tunic to caress his skin. He liked its softness. Scholar skin, indeed. Sandor used to paralyse under intimate touches such as these; now he kept talking, neither rejecting the gesture nor feeling uncomfortable.

“You went alone, and just after the fight against Adramalik. That was irresponsible of you.”

“I didn't imagine that there was someone who wanted to fight deep in the Barracks. And in any case, it was going to be a Magister. They needed five of them when they collared me in Driftwood.”

“But you had already used all your source against the demon.” Sandor scratched Ifan's head, trying to comb those grey hairs in vain.

“I didn’t fight it...”

“Ifan!” Sandor’s tone went a little louder and a shade of annoyance tinged it.

Ifan chuckled. “Like I said. It was going to be against a Magister in any case. Maybe two. It couldn’t be more. I guessed wrong. My bad.”

“Still. You found more than Magisters.” Ifan squeezed him, hiding his face between the pillow and Sandor’s waist. “That wound was not made by a sword”. Sandor moved his fingers to caress Ifan’s neck, sneaking his hand under the tunic to touch his shoulder blade.

“Gheists”. Ifan’s voice was muffled. 

“And you were drained and alone....” Sandor pushed him to turn him over until his back was against the mattress. He looked fondly at his tired, warm green eyes. Sandor’s hand cupped Ifan’s face, sliding his thumb.

Still tormented by what he had almost done with the Gheists, Ifan took the neck of Sandor’s tunic and pulled toward him, kissing him. A gentle kiss that grew intense with the seconds. Their lips parted just to return into a deeper and more starving contact. Ifan’s hands ran along Sandor’s back, sweetly caressing him, imprinting no pressure on it despite being desperate to feel Sandor’s weight on him. His hands once more sneaked underneath the tunic.

Sandor moaned inside the kiss and stopped, taken aback due to the breathtaking desire. He put some distance and looked at Ifan with a shy smile. Brighting eyes, Ifan twitched Sandor’s tunic repeatedly, a playful way to ask him if he was allowed to remove it. He missed that intimate contact, skin-to-skin. 

Sandor’s smile widened. He took the other man’s wrists gently, and put them aside Ifan’s head, leaning in to kiss his neck. Ifan groaned in delight. This was an unexpected Sandor, a little more confident Sandor, and he liked it. Once the wizard pretended to reduce the man on the mattress, taking away his initiative, he removed Ifan’s shirt instead. Provocative, he threw it aside and, after an initial hesitation, straddled Ifan. With only his bed-pants, and surprised by such display of tender dominance, Ifan froze, biting his lower lip in a silly smile. As a man afraid to break a cracked crystal, he kept his hands in the air, close to Sandor’s thighs, wondering whether or not to rest on them. He focused on Sandor’s face, and relaxed when he saw that smile, now tinged with a sensual glint that reached his usually sad brown eyes. His fingers stroked up to down over those thighs, trying to sneak sometimes underneath the tunic, climbing lazily along Sandor’s hips, just to slide down again when small spasms warned him to stop. 

Sandor’s fingers ran along that mistreated torso, softening their touch where scars were found, scratching here and there, playful, while casting a thin surface of ice on his fingertips to change it into intense warmth a moment later.

Delighted by the sensations, Ifan breathed in loudly, closed his eyes, and dug his fingers in Sandor’s thighs. 

“Ouch.” Ifan heard. Maybe it was too much. Maybe he was too accustomed to bark-skin.

His immediate reaction was, again, to release Sandor, and let his hands fell to his sides. “Damn. Sorry. Are you okay?”

With a smile half smug half coy, Sandor cupped Ifan's face and leant in to kiss him hungrily. Once again Ifan placed his hands on Sandor's back, rubbing it, sneaking under the clothes, fondly pushing the fabric to convince him that, yes, he wanted to removed it, desiring the contact of their skins. Finally, Sandor accessed to Ifan's wishes and let him pull it up over his head, throwing it somewhere in the bed.

It was a dream to have the wizard straddled; Ifan caressed Sandor’s thighs with fascination and sadness. When a waning moon met a waxing one, the latter was always destined to imprint ugly marks on the former. He extended his hand and reached Sandor’s neck, memorising the texture of those small burning scars that never healed properly due to the collar. That had been the beginning.

His fingers ran down to his chest and pressed his palm against his heart. Its soft beat drew a smile on Ifan's face. Then, his hands slid on his stomach, now more toned than before, where he met a broad star-like scar. All those marks made him feel so guilty and miserable, yet, he was grateful for having been forgiven. Despite being so unworthy of forgiveness.

Ifan opened his arms in the air, inviting Sandor to come closer, to give him the pleasure of feeling his weight on him, to taste a loving embrace made of scarred yet vulnerable skins. 

Skin against skin was becoming a routine in their life, a wonderful intimacy, a small gift that they shared after the end of terrible long days of fight and blood. It was strange. The world was falling apart, the Voidwoken were a more present danger than anything, and still yet, to Ifan, life could not be better. He squeezed Sandor. He needed that. He needed him.

Maybe sensing Ifan’s dark thoughts, Sandor parted a bit from him, kissed him deeply, and moved his hips. The friction despite the underwear made Ifan let escape a lewd sigh as a result of his shaken senses. Now, he needed everything.

After a long moment of intense kisses and moans, the pressure of their bodies increased. Sandor went apart, and still being sat on Ifan’s groin, he rubbed that muscular torso with his palms, but the touch had changed. It was not sensual and provocative, but hesitant and a bit idle now.

Playfully, Ifan chuckled and frowned at him. “Something wrong?”

“I don't know...”

Ifan raised his eyebrows. Now again his hands on Sandor's thighs, up and down, caressing them with gentleness.

“I want more. I want… something else...” Sandor said.

“What? Tell me. You know… I'll do whatever you want, just say the word. I just want to be with you.”

Sandor chuckled, looking down, suddenly coy; his shoulders bended a little.

Worried, Ifan lifted from the mattress a bit until sitting and surrounded him with his arms. “Sandor?”

The wizard's eyes were wet, and a nervous smile was curving his lips. “It's nothing. It's just… silly.” Ifan looked at him intensely, waiting for him to explain. “I… I don't know what to do. To feel good, I mean. This is good. But I want more. Yet… I'm afraid that beyond this point… I… I wouldn't find anything... good.”

Ifan sighed and left some pecks on his chest, resting his forehead there. He breathed in, collecting as much as he could that intense aroma on Sandor's skin. It was a warm scent that reminded him home, not his home among the elves, but the abstract concept of home; it was the essence of recently baked bread, the warm aroma of wood crackling in a hearth during a winter night. It was so intense, that unconsciously Ifan licked him twice and sighed in frustration. His useless tongue. “Slow, darling. No need to rush, we'll learn.”

They kissed again and lay on the bed, enjoying their intimate contact.

Sandor rested on his side, one hand supporting his head, the other on Ifan's chest, stroking his scarred skin with particular attention. He smiled. “I don't know anything about your scars. For example, this one. How did you get it?”. He caressed a long deep line under the left pectoral.

“Oh, that one. One of the worst I had. It was a nasty contract. I ended with a spear trough my chest. I have the matching scar at my back. It's ironic if you think about it now. I had to kill a whole group of dwarves who were plotting against the Queen. I was hired by one of her useless guardians. Since that day I'd always been avoiding those contracts. Dwarves are crazy tough ones.”

“And this one?” Sandor pointed a star-like shaped scar close the collarbone.

“An old one. Got it during the war. I have more like these in my legs. They were arrows soaked in cursed acid that started to rot immediately after blood contact. It was painful like hell. We were in a group with some fellows downed and we were expecting reinforcements. I had to keep my position, fighting until they arrive. But fever made me pass out after a while. The healers that took care of me told me that they only could stop the infection. Cursed acid affects flesh magically. It's hard to heal, like wounds made by source-weapons. They do slowly. My recovery took almost a year. I hate cursed wounds.”

Sandor lifted a bit and kissed that scar. “And these?” he caressed some small marks that seemed to be deep bite scars. Several small cuts, one after the other, shaping circles on his shoulders and arms, and even some on his waist.

“The nasty bites. Result of an elven ritual. _Dhaleram_ marks.”

Sandor kept caressing those muscular arms, brushing over with his fingers until reaching Ifan's wrists. There, Ifan did not say anything, but blushed. He looked aside, this time not so proud. Those scars always brought him deep shame. Marks of his darkest times. Sandor took Ifan's hand, turned it a bit, and kissed his wrists, dearly. Ifan looked at him as if he were in a trance, the sweetest of a smile drawn on his face.

They had a lot of scars along their bodies and souls; marks that were the result of the way they had been shaped; resilient and powerful fighters, yet they were not free of their own weaknesses, shame, and pain.

The gesture moved Ifan, whose eyes became wet. He would never be worthy of so much forgiveness. Those pecks on his wrists overwhelmed him, so he could not help but pull Sandor and kiss him as a thirsty man looking for the oasis of his mouth. He extended his arms, running his rugged fingers along the wizard's hair, while being carried away by the fear that crossed his spine each time Sandor was close to die and by the thought that those sad brown eyes could disappear forever with only a single mistake during a fight.

“You are incredible” Ifan whispered when they broke the kiss for just a moment. Sandor smiled and devoured his lips once again.

Receiving nothing less than delicious guttural moans from the wizard, Ifan lifted his leg between Sandor’s, kissing meticulously his jaw. He wanted to know every corner of this man’s soul, to forge a deeper connection. So, he licked Sandor’s neck, frustrated. It was a need that was driving him mad, but it was also a fact; he would never see through his tongue. Starving, desperate, he returned to Sandor’s lips and deepened the kiss while his hands travelled all along that softer back, sliding to his waist to sneakily push down his pants—just a bit—and cup his buttocks. The touch turned Sandor’s body rigid suddenly, and as soon as Ifan noticed it, he stopped short. 

Cautious, Ifan released his lustful grip, and observed Sandor's face, waiting the next hint to follow. They looked at each other. Ashamed, Sandor shook his head shortly, his lips compressed in a fine line. Then, he buried his face in Ifan's neck, looking for a place where to hide from the horrible sensations of the past and the immense frustration of the present. Ifan let escape a long sigh from his chest to release the accumulated tension and embraced him, rubbing his back dearly. A guttural sound was drowned in Sandor’s throat.

“Shhh. It’s okay. We are good. Slowly.” He said in an unexpected husky voice, full of desire and lust contained that was obvious even to the wizard.

Sandor drowned a sniff in Ifan’s neck, released a deep sigh, and squeezed him with all the strength he had.

Ifan patted him, dissolving the intensity of the moment into their usual fondness.

“One step at a time...” Ifan said, now with his voice recovered, displaying only some shades of tiredness.

And in that position, feeling each other’s calm breath, they fell asleep. 

 

* * *

Ifan rubbed his nape, observing Fane's human face. This was a bad idea. He did not want to see this woman. Specially less with Sandor and Fane at his back. He sighed loudly, moved his head popping his neck, and finally gathered enough strength to knock Sanguinia Tell's door. A servant opened it and allowed Ifan to pass but extended his hand to halt his companions.

Ifan turned on his heels and frowned. "They come with me"

The servant looked at him for a couple of seconds and then let them in. They walked through an enormous living room. It had stairs around that reached to a second floor, large velvet sofas placed in a perfect line, and a long mahogany table, where at its end a woman with superior attitude was drinking a tea. The first one who got her attention was Ifan. She raised her eyebrows as a wide smile curved her lips.

"My Lucian, look what blessing we have here. The wonderful commander of the Order, Ben-Mezd."

Ifan raised an eyebrow and smiled politely. "Not since a long time, I'm afraid. But, still yet, a pleasure to meet you again, Lady Tell."

She smiled and pointed a chair, inviting him to sit. "I was younger when you were in Ataraxia, performing duties. Everyone used to talk about the handsome commander back then. Time didn't pass for you, my dear."

Ifan laughed--a dry not so natural laugh in him--and a light blush appeared under his beard. He sat on the chair while a servant offered him a tea cup. He rejected it politely.

“How is your wife?”

Ifan's eyes hardened, but he kept his shallow smile, slowly looking down at the memory of how much Nueleth used to complain about this loan shark. “She passed away on duties. Long time ago.”

“Oh, my condolences” She said crossing her legs. Her tone was everything but sincere. “So I must assume you are single now”.

"Wait, is she... performing mating rituals?" Fane whispered close to Sandor's ear. Both wizards were some steps behind Ifan, standing. The invitation to their companion had not been extended to them. It was clear they were not welcomed.

Sandor bit his lower lip. "I don't know what's going on with her."

She looked at the other men behind the wonderful ex-commander and frowned. "And you two are.....?"

"My current co-workers, Lady Tell.” Ifan extended his arms as a way to refocus her attention on him. “We came to talk about the security of the city. We know you care for it"

She smiled again, all honey and sweet when looking at Ifan. "Security matters are Lord Kemm's department"

"We talked to him. But I'm afraid he was not... so willingly to help us."

She blinked, then sighed. "It's the corruption" she sipped allowing a long moment of silence. "The corruption that wizards have brought". Her eyes became acid and full of hatred, and looked intensely at Sandor and Fane.

"What do you mean?"

“Since the Voidwoken have been spreading their chaos all over Rivellon, many researchers inside the Paladin group realised that this phenomenon had a relationship with a kind of disease spread by Wizards.” She looked at Ifan, once again her eyes soft and wet “You should stay away from them, my dear. My informant said that they consume source from everyone, specially sourcerers, leaving empty husk of humans. I know you are a sourcerer, am I right?”

Ifan nodded, hesitantly. How the woman knew so much?. This put him in alert. “Don't mind about that, my Lady. We are quite sure that such thing is not happening.”

She sipped without looking at him. “Mn. So, you are here for....?”

“I need access to the Path of Blood. We need to see Lucian's tomb. It's a security matter as I've said before.”

“I can't tell you how to pass it. That's the job of that filthy wizard hidden in the Cathedral, contaminating us all.”

“But Lord Arhu-”

“Please, don't degrade such noble title with his name. He is not a Lord. He is an animal.”

Sandor frowned.

Ifan remained smiling, polite and unperturbed. “Well, the matter is... we don't know where he is. And Lord Kemm only told us to stay away from his investigation when we have been helping so much in the Magister Barracks.”

“Ah. I see. Of course you have always been so kind to offer your help to those who'll never appreciate it.” She sipped, taking her time to think about something else in silence. Then, she looked at him. “In Lord Kemm's garden, there is a hidden passage to his Vault. There, you will find your answers.”

Ifan nodded and thanked the lady, leaving the place.

Taking advantage of Sanguinia's information, they began to walk to the Kemms' mansion.

"My lady this, my lady that. I'm afraid I can't. Oh, not such thing. may I pry?." Sandor repeated, mocking Ifan's polite speech accent.

"Stop it" Ifan looked at him like wolves do when the playful game with another of their pack starts to become annoying. An empty threat.

Sandor put an affected hand on his own chest, "You sounded so scholar-ish. What people would say? Specially those in the Undertavern?"

Of course, Ifan's fake reprehensible eyes did not last much longer. How could he do it? It was Sandor, after all. His look changed into a soft one, and finally chuckled.

"It seems she likes you" Sandor said walking beside Ifan.

He sighed. "I know, she was all the time caressing my leg under the table. By the Seven!"

Sandor frowned. "Was she always... so fond of you?"

Ifan rolled his eyes and looked around. Close to Kemm's mansion, there was a group of aristocratic lizards walking in the same direction. "She was. She proposed me to be his lover once."

"And did you take the opportunity?" Fane said.

Ifan winced. "Of course not. First, I had a wife back then. And second, no. Not even if I were single."

Sandor smiled at that choice of words. "Well. That's an ace under your sleeve". Ifan looked at Sandor in disbelief. “What? You should exploit it. That's an advantage.”

"Indeed" Fane added "clearly through all your elementary and senseless history, a lot of political and economical disasters had always been related to passion and lust. Just look at Ygerna and Damian story”

Ifan rose an eyebrow, looking at both wizards in disbelief. He stopped in front of the big gate of Kemm's garden, "well, we'll see. We'll see" he tried to open the gate, but it was locked. "For the moment let's focus on this. Fane, do your bony magic."

The skeleton made a half smile and forced the lock in the door. They had to explore the gardens now.

 

* * *

The Secret Corner was bustling with more people than days ago, and despite its display of signs claiming no available free rooms, the increasing flow of pilgrims, and its financially benefits associated to them, made the owners of the inn consider more flexible solutions. Rooms were full but that was not a reason for not to keep adding people. Suddenly the kitchen or the basement of the tavern started to display more and more bedrolls everywhere. Not even the main hall had been spared. In its corners, covered with folding screens, small spaces with several bedrolls had been created to be offered as places for sleeping. The scandal that Lord Kemm had kidnapped and tortured the beloved protector of the city, Arhu, had neither affected the faith of the local pilgrims nor discouraged others from coming.

After several days of rest in the Lady Vengeance, Sebille and Lohse recovered their strength fully. With the rest of the group, they had decided to spend the last day before heading to the Path of Blood in the inn the Secret Corner, to enjoy the companionship and the average quality of the drinks. To cherish the present was something that this long journey had taught them.

Ifan and Sandor were in the same table than Fane, drinking some light beverage while Fane was enjoying the moment, for the first time, without taking down notes of anything that was happening around. When Sebille arrived, she sat besides Ifan and looked at the small stage that the tavern had improvised. Lohse was getting prepared to display her show. She started with her lute, and bit by bit, she exposed a feast of songs, chords, and beautiful source-effects. From the stage to the public, thousands of glowing butterfly flew, dancing at the song's rhythm, and powerful source-fireworks exploded around the stage. Lohse was finally able to enjoy all the little things that Adramalik had taken away from her.

Nothing from that show reflected the horrors they had fought during the last days: the atrocities of Adramalik, the presence of the Godking underground, the danger of the Deathfog in the sewers, the exhausting fight against Lord Kemm himself to save Arhu. For today, things were calm and made to enjoy.

"So, for Divinity" Sebille said in a dry tone. Ifan and Sandor toasted her words. "What are you going to do after all this is over?". Her eyes were on Sandor.

A small glint illuminated Ifan's eyes while taking a long sip and focusing on the wizard. He was, indeed, curious about his answer. They hadn't had time to ask each other such things.

"I don't know. I still don’t know if I'll live." A nervous smile curved Sandor's lips. As usual, he was the light of the party.

"Hey. Don't say that." Ifan hit softly Sandor's leg with his own under the table.

Sandor snorted. "You?" He said looking at Sebille.

She tilted her head and smiled. "I will travel. I need to do many things" Ifan and Sebille shared a long look and knowing smiles. They knew what that meant beyond plain words.

"A toast for it" Ifan lifted his mug towards her, patted her back with his free hand, and drank.

"And you, my friend?" She said looking at him.

He cleaned his mouth with the back of his hand "I need to do some things too, to amend my mistakes. I'd like to return to the forest. To clean all that nasty Deathfog. To heal, at least a little bit, what was damaged."

"Human life is too short to see a forest growing green again" she said a bit worried.

"I will prepare the healing. I'm not expecting to see it. It's fair. After all, I destroyed it. I just want to recover those forests for the elves. It's the least I can do."

Sebille smiled and patted gently Ifan's cheek. Then, she looked at Sandor with squinted eyes. "So, you have your man going to recover a forest alone and you have just said you don't have idea what to do?"

Ifan chuckled, red cheeks and broad smile. Damn Sebille.

Sandor looked at Ifan with silent sad eyes, like a fawn afraid of its hunter. In Ifan's plan there was his terrible enemy: change. That monster that could be colourful and exciting to tame, or a predator eager to engulf its victim.

Ifan read beyond those eyes and smiled. "You don’t even need to ask, you are more than invited to help me. Well, I was... er... going to suggest it later, anyway. Your powers will make things easier and safer." He winked at him.

Sandor's eyes brightened.

They remained silent once more, focusing on what Lohse was performing on the stage. When her act ended, some others musicians started their own show, letting her join the table. She took her place beside Sandor's.

“What do you think? Mhn?” She said enthusiastically. Her eyes were bright and blue, so free of that dark presence that had been living inside her for so long.

“Beautiful voice” Ifan said with a gentle smile.

“Indeed. I've never… listened such harmony before. Eternal's have their musical taste, but it was…. quite dull, now that I compare it to this. Everyone used to listen the same music. Cheers, Lohse” Fane said, sat at the end of the table, the place of the wise elder, as he used to call it.

Sandor nodded. “Now I see why Lohse is the famous singer that everyone knows. Your magic on the stage is like a dream”

“Aww, you know how to get me, don't you?” She smiled, elbowing him while winking at Ifan. With a mug in her hand, she lift her arm and spoke ,“Guys. I just want to tell you thank you. Thank you all for being with me when I needed you the most. Thank you for getting rid of my passenger!” she said pointing out her head.

Sandor stood up with his mug in both hands and cleared his throat. “Now that we are thanking each other, it seems to be a fitting time for this.” He bowed a bit, elegant and confident, exuding his scholar aura and a pretension of nobility in every delicate movement. “I want to thank you all. For this journey together. For your patient training” He lowered his head in a small bow towards Sebille, “for your gentle funny personality”, he looked at his side, to Lohse, his smile getting wider, “for your extensive wisdom and all those hours of enlightenment you have shared with me” he said toward Fane, moving his hand in that scholar sign language that he used just to emphasize his gratefulness.

“It was about time for someone to recognize my work. Likewise”. Fane chuckled and then smiled in his human form, gentler eyes than a moment ago.

Then, Sandor looked at the man sitting at his front. Ifan's intense green eyes were playful and full of emotions, and a wry smile was curving his lips. Due to his observant attitude, he was probably mocking Sandor's scholar-ish speech, but at the same time he was aware of the wizard's feelings, and a slight blush coloured his cheeks under his beard. The silence suspended in the air, interrupted by the sounds of the show performed by the artists and the general murmur of the tavern, was so comfortable for both that they forgot the presence of their friends around.

“Ha, he can't say publicly what he wants to thank him. My, imagine that!. Well, better don't” Lohse said, and then everyone laughed.

Sandor and Ifan broke their eye contact. Ifan laughed too, rubbing his face as a way to conceal his fiercely red cheeks.

“Thank you Ifan, for everything.” Sandor resumed his words. Ifan nodded, smiling at him, and drank a bit more. A sweet warmth spread in his chest.

The group remained enjoying their company for a while, until the late hour pushed them to their rooms. They needed to rest for the big day ahead. Even Fane rented a room to sleep—more like a bedroll in the kitchen—just to turn his mind off and rest because their quest for divinity required them at their hundred percent.

 

Once in their room, Ifan and Sandor went to sleep in the only books-free bed that their room had. Compressed due to the lack of space, they rested on their sides, their faces too close. Under the blankets Sandor reached Ifan's hands and placed his lips on his shoulder, giving some pecks there before burying his face in his neck. Ifan remained caressing Sandor's wrists with his thumbs.

“You don't want to...?” Sandor whispered, fear waving his voice.

Ifan, who was starting to fall asleep, drew his head back and looked at Sandor with small sleepy eyes. “Mhwhat?”

Sandor got closer. “The day before a big battle people tend to… release their stress.”

Ifan snorted. “Where does that happen?” his face fell on the pillow, a silly smile on his face.

Sandor looked at him, his profile standing out from the pillow, Ifan's hair, long and wild, was spread over it. “Uh?. Is it not usual? Before a deadly battle? A big fight?”

Ifan moved a bit, brought Sandor's hands close to his lips and kissed them, leaving them there. His warm breath kept caressing them. “Not at all. I mean… maybe if you are younger, and you think that day will be the last one... but even in that situation, you are not in the mood.” he rolled his eyes as a sudden memory came to him “Well, I knew a lad in the Lone Wolves that was hornier when danger was closer. Not the wisest attitude to have in middle of the war if you want to survive, I tell you.” Ifan caressed Sandor's cheek.

Sandor smiled. “Oh. I… I thought… well. In novel books it is so common. I thought it was normal.”

Ifan laughed softly and kissed Sandor's hands again. “No. You focus on what's coming, in every dark possibility, in alternatives to survive from an infinite amount of situations in which everything can go wrong, in the fear of losing important things, dear ones. Not the best thoughts to inspire the mood. Don't you think?”

Sandor sighed relaxed, as if some knot in his chest had just been released. “No. Indeed.”

“Let's just sleep. We need to be well rested for tomorrow” Ifan sneaked one arm under Sandor's head, closed his eyes, and placed his free hand on his hips. Again, the soft movement of his thumb relaxed Sandor.

Sandor slid his hand on Ifan's neck, playing with the locks of hair that were around. The more time he spent with him, the more astonished he became for his kindness. He could not believe Ifan had not had more lovers in his life. Proper ones, not like him. Could he miss them like he kept missing Nueleth?. Curiosity was hitting him strongly.

“You… you never answered me something….” Sandor said after some minutes. His mind was working thousand of times faster than usual, recalling every moment since Fort Joy, to Driftwood, to Arx. It was clear that Sandor was who needed to release stress somehow.

Opening his sleepy eyes with a bit of fear, Ifan frowned slightly. “Mhm?”

“How many lovers did you have in your life?”

Ifan snorted. A tired smile was drawn on his lips. He buried his face in the pillow. “I haven't had as many as people tend to imagine me. I don't know why." he looked at him wondering if he could answer. “what do you think? Give me a number”.

Sandor looked aside. He put in his mind Ifan's apparent age and the estimated time he was recruited into the Order. He might have had some things with the elves he grew up with, probably. And then, there was his wife. He was handsome. Neither years nor scars worsened his attractiveness. Sandor also remembered that in the ship to Fort Joy, in a corner of the common room, behind the folder screen, he saw him kissing an elven man, both collared and somehow in a trance of passion. He looked at him, finishing the estimation. “Forty?”

Ifan widened his eyes and smiled. “By the Seven, do I look like I've had those?.” he whistled then laughed. Sandor frowned while Ifan counted with his fingers. “Twelve. More or less.”

Sandor was the one with widened eyes now. How such a wonderful man had had so few lovers in his life?.

“Most of them were not… exactly lovers” Ifan continued.

Sandor frowned. “What do you mean?”

Ifan kissed Sandor's forehead and left his chin on his top. “For example... I was with an elven man in the ship to Fort Joy. He was ill, dying. He knew he would not last much longer, but he didn't want to die without sharing his memories beforehand, so... um... I didn't mind to… you know. With a lick he saw I had everything to survive that prison. Not like the others. So he trusted in me to carry his memories. I have the memories of some people that must return to the elves once I'm dead. It's a great responsibility. One I must perform correctly."

"They can do that with humans?"

"Mnhm. There are some spells for that. The memory transference is weak in humans, but at least it's something. The process requires a deep level of intimacy and knowledge of elven language in both. Not all humans can. It involves some nasty bites too. That's why I have those marks you saw the other day. And.. It also requires something that every human is scared of..."

"Pollen?"

Ifan chuckled. "No. Mind control." Sandor moved his head to look at him horrified. "Yeah, exactly that's the face everyone does."

"Are you serious?"

Ifan sighed. "That's what a _Dhaleram_ does. Offers his flesh and mind for others to imprint the memories that can't be taken through the consumption of flesh."

"Ifan... that's dangerous" This was what Sebille had referred to when they fought Adramalik, Sandor remembered. "Those spells are forbidden in wizardry arts because they have collateral damage. You become prone to possession."

Ifan nodded, as if he had known about this since forever and still yet, he kept offering his flesh as a graveyard of memories. Clearly, it was motivated by the pain and the guilt that the Deathfog had left in his soul.

"Tell me you didn't pass through that process more than a couple of times." Ifan looked aside. A bit ashamed. “Ifan, the condition gets worse over times. How many times you allowed mind control on you?"

Ifan muttered slowly, counting with his fingers. "Eight or nine"

"For the... that's a lot" Sandor caressed Ifan's cheek. Now it made so much sense the way that the Hunger had been controlling him. How easily Rhalic had took over his mind. And why the demonic presences of Bloodmoon Isle had overwhelmed him.

Ifan looked sadly at those worried brown eyes. Since he met Sandor, he had always lamented secretly not to have the natural ability of watching memories through the flesh. But now his frustration grew even more, because he was always fantasying to share with the wizard the depth of their souls by using that spell. But he knew it was too risky, especially for him. He was disappointed of knowing that none of them would share intimately each other's bits of human fragility; their pain, their past, their good, their bad, the all of them.

"Is there some way to be protected from this condition? To kind of patch it?"

Sandor shook his head, then frowned. “Sadly no. You must avoid demon proximity at all cost, forever." Sandor caressed Ifan's cheek, giving him some pecks to ease his frustration. Then, he frowned slightly. "Twelve? Nine out of twelve?.”

“Ah, stubborn." Ifan chuckled. "Yeah, three left. Nueleth, a Lone Wolf that… well, we had our differences. And you. That's the rest.”

Sandor looked at him, at first surprised, but then, he reflected on it. It was clear, now. It was impossible for Ifan to have a long list of lovers. He seemed to be one of those people who were hard to fall for someone, and when it happened, he would do it heavily, remaining by their side until the end. Like a loyal dog, like a good trustworthy partner. He was a good companion, a stand up man, of course he would remain until the very end.

Sandor smiled. It was easy to imagine that, by just listening Ifan to talk about his dead wife. That powerful and relentless elven woman that Sandor had learnt to respect and appreciate indirectly as a result of Ifan's memories. However, considering how Ifan's partners used to affect him deeply, he found strange to have never known about that Lone Wolf before. Curiosity, as a good scholar, pushed him once more.

“You never talked about that Lone Wolf. Do you have a necklace related to that one?” Sandor caressed Ifan's medallions, revising the story of each one that Ifan had shared with him.

“No. I don't have anything related to him. Only scars. There was... well, nothing good to keep.” Sandor frowned, “He was an elven man. It was rare to find elves among the Lone Wolves. Pretty rare. Same as he.”

“Is he alive?”

“So far I know, yes. Not sure where. Wolves are… quite hard to locate. And after... Roost... you know, I'm not sure what he would be doing by now. And I don't care either.”

“May I ask you what was the cause of your break?”

Ifan breathed heavily through his nostrils, and took a long pause. “We were... too different. He enjoyed to hurt people, killing elves especially. I never understood his resentment against his own kind. But now… After knowing all what Sebille has passed through, all what the Mother Tree has been doing... maybe I can understand him a bit more.”

“Wait. He killed his own? You... you didn't defend them?”

“I was a Lone Wolf. I used to mind only my own business, remember?. To kill those elves meant contracts. So he picked them all, he liked that.”

Sandor caressed Ifan's chest, gentle stroke on his scars, wondering which of those where the ones that belonged to that twisted elf. “It's strange you don't have something that reminds him”

“No. No. He was not a good... time." He sighed heavily, "We were too... violent. As I said, he enjoyed hurting, and back then, I needed to be hurt. A lot. There is nothing good to remember from him.”

Sandor looked at him but Ifan averted his eyes. “Oh. I see...”

He kept fidgeting Ifan's necklaces. Among that bunch, he found the amulet he had given to him in Driftwood, in front of the Burning Prophet monument. Back then, he had thought that Ifan was gone forever, roaming in his wolf path along the vast Rivellon, never looking back. During those days a deep sadness had nestled in his chest; part for knowing the hard truth that Ifan had killed his tutor time ago but also for considering Ifan gone. It was not easy for Sandor to accept the fact that he was falling for his tutor's killer, but he could not help but give to himself an endless list of excuses. After all, the context was key. In his worst time, Ifan had been killing without much consciousness about it, like an automaton, like Sandor had lived in the Academy for decades. Both trapped in a painful past from which they were unable to escape, whether they did not have the courage to do so or simply did not mind at all.

That was why, after long hours of reflection, Sandor realised that losing Ifan was meant to add more loneliness to his already solitary life. The memory of that moment when they were reunited before the Burning Prophet statue filled his chest with warmth. In that moment he realised that they would always find a way to return to each other, because the world was a terrible place to bear without the other in it.

And that thought fed his fear. Both of them would feel a great and dangerous pain if the other would not make it in this battle. “If something happens, Ifan.. If I fall… promise me. If-”

Ifan kissed him softly, stopping him. “Don't say it. You promised me. You'll survive. Like I'll do. And we'll destroy Divinity.” He chuckled. “I can't wait to get over with it, and live my life. A _human_ life. Free. With you.” he pressed Sandor against him, a tight embrace.

They fell asleep by the rhythm of their breath.

 

* * *

A dimensional portal appeared on the deck of the Lady Vengeance. Sebille emerged with an exhausted Lohse on her back and Fane in her arms. The skeleton was drained or dead, it was hard to say when his eye sockets did not glow as usual. Ifan followed her, as soaked in blood as Sandor, who was in his arms, bleeding profusely. He did not waste time and looked at Malady for help. Gareth and Tarquin were the last ones to pass through the portal. After them, Malady closed it and frowned. She could not feel any of them as Divine, but a strong source-residue was easily perceived in Ifan. However, she could not ask anything, Sandor needed to be treated immediately, otherwise, he was at risk of dying from blood loss.

While Malady took care of Sandor, Ifan helped Sebille to put their companions in their own hammocks. Everyone was exhausted by the long and terrible fight they had just faced. It had been not only against Braccus Rex, but also against Dallis the Hammer and Lucian himself. When Malady finished the healing spell, Ifan changed Sandor's clothes, cleaned him the best he could and left him in his hammock. Before leaving the middle deck, he looked at Lohse's direction and saw both women sharing a deep kiss, with tired giggles and gentle caresses. He smirked.

The rush of adrenaline was still pumping through his body. Before tiredness could reach him, he needed to relax a bit, so Ifan went to the main deck to breathe fresh air. Resting on the handrail of the ship, he looked at the sea. The fight had been tough. And true to his word, Sandor had paved the path toward the magical wand which granted Divinity. With the strongest display of source and magic never seen before, Sandor got rid of Dallis and Braccus Rex completely alone. Hell, he had killed the King of Source. No wonder he was still sleeping. Ifan was not sure to had ever seen the control of such massive amount of source. In fact, the thought that at every fight Sandor learnt to manipulate a bigger amount of source crossed his mind. But it was unsustainable in the time. As Masters of Source, they could only reach a certain level, still yet Sandor's power felt bigger after every severe drain.

Sebille and Fane had fought the many Magisters that surrounded them, and he had his deserved revenge with Lucian alone. Once Lucian was down he heard Sandor' shout. _Take divinity, Ifan!_. He had followed orders without thinking for so many years, that he simply did it. He took the power, that incredible endless amount of source raising from every fibre of his body. He had never felt so powerful and afraid at the same time. He understood in that moment why sacrifices had always been so insignificant to Lucian. This power made everything look insignificant . The temptation of taking it was enormous. He almost claimed Divinity for himself, overwhelmed and intoxicated by it. He felt like a God for a moment, and its delicious taste was hard to decline. But in the last moment, he destroyed the wand and divinity with its own power.

"Well, here we are. Surrounded by an infinite amount of useless mini-divines". Malady's tone was full of disdain as she walked close to him. "It was your doing, wasn't it?

Ifan nodded.

"What a waste of power." She sighed and rested her weight on the handrail, surveying the sea. The day was beautiful. Sun shining up in the sky and fresh breeze caressing their cheeks.

"It was the right thing to do". Ifan said.

"Mhn. You say that now. But the future will prove you wrong."

Squinting eyes, Ifan looked at her. "What's yet to come?. You never explained a word. Maybe it is not so catastrophic as you say, and you use this omission to make others accept your command without questions. Maybe, knowing the details would make your orders less appealing to follow?"

Malady raised an eyebrow. "Please, don't think of yourself smarter than Mama Malady. It was _me_ , and not _you_ , who took you out of Fort Joy, helped you against Dallis, and rescued your sorry ass in the Well of Ascension."

"Beyond the escape from Fort Joy, all the others were extra troubles you got us into. I just think it would be fair if you could explain us about why you need a damned Divine."

"Yes, I needed it. But it's something that's not gonna happen anymore". She sighed. "Useless to explain at this point."

"Just give me a good reason why you need a Divine when we were capable of killing not only one of their kind, but also his Divine-wannabe son and a bunch of Eternal bastards?. What kind of power you need that we can't equal".

"My dear wolfy Ifan, as simple as this: immortality. What's going to happen will take place several centuries ahead. Tell me how all of you are going to survive time itself? Sebille, maybe, but you all will perish before you can fathom what threat is coming",

Ifan blinked, letting silence emphasize the rudeness of Malady's words while surveyed the sea.

"Now you see why it's pointless to explain. Why it had always been pointless". She sighed again. "Well, no sense in crying over spilled water. I'll find a way. I always do. Meanwhile, enjoy your life, my little rebel wolf. And farewell, this will be the last time we'll see each other". Both looked at each other straight into their eyes for a long silent moment, then Malady turned over her heels and strode away.

Sandor appeared after a couple of hours and walked to Ifan. Jubilant as he had never been, Ifan beamed at him, extending his arms in the air, inviting him. He embraced him enthusiastically, patting his back, and then he parted a bit to cup Sandor's face with both hands and kissed him exuberantly. Sandor, as happy as him, accepted all that overwhelming emotions coming from Ifan. Something had changed in the wayfarer, something long dead was now more alive than ever. Maybe the residues of divinity in his soul were the reason, they had let resurface the Ifan that had always been before war. So energetically alive.

"We did it. We made it!. The odds were against us. Hell, the gods were against us. But still, we did it."

With less enthusiasm and more care, Sandor hugged Ifan and remained in his arms a bit longer, tasting the embrace without the stress of pressing matters. Things were going to be different now, and that fear bittered his soul. But Sandor kept silent, enjoining the present.

Ifan drew back and smiled at him, patting gently his cheek.

"I knew it. I knew we were going to do good things. We were going to change the rules" Ifan kissed him again, this time slow and longer, exploring his mouth and running down his hands to his waist to pressure against him.

"What are you going do now? Are you going to go to the forest?" Sandor said when they broke the kiss, lips slightly swollen.

"That's an idea. But it has to wait. For now, we need to prepare against the Voidwoken. Divinity did not end the threat but gave us a big chance. And we need to take it. We need source-weapons, proper training for everyone, a new kind of protectors, I don't want more Magister bullshit around, war owls, a central location. Do you think Arx is a good one?." By the look of Sandor's face, Ifan slowed down and chuckled. "Sorry. Old habits die hard." He took Sandor's hand and caressed it. "Would you want to be my companion in this new adventure? It'll have less running and more living in a city. More beds than hammocks." He winked at Sandor.

Sandor looked down for a second and smiled. "Sounds better. Less collars and ships, uh?."

"Definitively".

Sandor nodded, his lips compressed in a fine line.

"Besides, I'll need a right hand, a Master of Knowledge, a Mestre."

Sandor blinked with a wry smile on his face. "From useless scholar to Mestre?. What's that?"

Ifan tilted his head, a mischievous smile curving his lips. "A fancy title you earned after so much slipping on ichor"

"Ifan!"

Both of them laughed. The new order of the world would mean new challenges, but for now, they could wait a little bit before putting their hands to work. Just a little bit.

 

 

_... to be continue in  “About Feathers and Claws II – The Divine Doom”._

 

* * *

**Final comments**

* * *

 

_Finally this monster is ended. Coinciding with the defence of my thesis . It's like that big things happen in my life after finishing each of my monster fics._

_First of all, thank you. Thank you for reading this story._

_As usual, any improvement or critical thought about my writing skills is always welcomed. I don't take it personally, in fact, I'm starving for that kind of feedback. There is no other way to improve my writing than through my mistakes, being pointed out by those who can spot them._

_Yes, Sandor's instability and the rumours about certain sourcerers as “insane people”, are some concepts I took from DOS1. Even though we don't have corrupted source in the same sense than in DOS1, I liked to think that in some parts of Rivellon, and after so many centuries after DOS1, some ill rumours and modified versions of what truly happened before still survive the passage of time._

_What happened with the black mirror?, with Malady's quest?, with the monoliths?, why so many holes?; you may ask yourself. Hopefully, all what's not explained here will be used in the second part of the serie._

_I've been editing and working with this text for more than six month. As usual, editing takes almost twice or trice the time that takes me to write the draft. The lack of comments and kudos make me wonder if this fic is understandable or not (I mean, I know a lot of people may not like it, which it's ok. My problem is the understanding-part). I'm a person too insecure with my grammar and explanation skills. If some of you can at least tell me that this fic is readable, I would be deeply grateful, because, honestly, that's something I need to know._

_Anyway. I hope you enjoyed the story, and I'll be working in the edition of the second part of the serie._

_Thank you again for reading._  
  
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This fic contains all the [headcanons listed here](https://lairofsentinel.tumblr.com/post/177529566996). 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed this fic, please, consider to leave a kudo. If you spotted a systematic mistake, please, could you comment it through the different ways available to contact me? help me to improve my writing.  
> Any kudo or comment would be appreciated deeply, and they could even made my day.


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